


I'll Pick Up Your Bones When I'm Done

by Cephied_Variable



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 111,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5326337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephied_Variable/pseuds/Cephied_Variable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You're going to change the world, Boss, and I want to see it happen. You can ask me to do terrible things in your name, I don't care... just don't lie to me again and I'll see it through with you - by your side until the end."</i>
</p><p>Miller makes a different decision in the 80's. Instead of vowing revenge, he takes his place at Big Boss's side as the X.O. of Zanzibar Land. At the dawn of a tumultuous new century, Kaz struggles with the only question left that matters: this is what he wanted, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. [1994] Washington State

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is: the “Kaz and BB get back together (and so Kaz ends up as the third last boss of MG2)" AU that no one asked for! This fic builds on some ideas explored in my fic [everyone can start again, not through love but through revenge](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4877800/chapters/11183185) so I'd recommend reading it before cracking this one open. 
> 
> [I mostly wrote this an an excuse](https://41.media.tumblr.com/82144488b460b2d9107daf52aba78d13/tumblr_nynxwnVqCF1r07ihdo3_540.png) to imagine [what "Master Miller" would be like](https://41.media.tumblr.com/1bd7fe58505d7528c15c0ee17269caf6/tumblr_nynxwnVqCF1r07ihdo4_540.png) as an 8-bit Kojima boss. At the end of this thing, [I’ll show you exactly how that would work](https://40.media.tumblr.com/036a11ca757c3f524e1259f15fa5a3de/tumblr_nynxwnVqCF1r07ihdo5_540.png) ;)
> 
> All fanworks are linked in the [BONUS DISC](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5326337/chapters/14808943). Please go look at them! The artists who have done art for this fic are INSANELY talented! Go give their work some love! <3 <3 <3
> 
>  **Content Warning:** Depictions of violence and gore, war crimes, addiction, abuse, PTSD, interpersonal violence  & gaslighting.

  
ART BY [STARLOCK](http://starlock.tumblr.com)

 

 

**1999**

_“In a real dark night of the soul, it’s always 3am,”_ Solid Snake thinks as he chips the black mud from his boots. The air in the Tselinoyarsk jungle is humid and thick enough to slice with a knife, but Snake’s been trudging through so many swamps and sewers that a chill he can’t shake has settled beneath his skin. His uniform is stained dark from the soil, and from the blood of Big Boss’s many lieutenants: Red Blaster, Predator, _Kyle Schneider_ -

Snake’s knife slips and he accidentally nicks the side of his hand. He hisses and brings the split skin to his mouth, sucking hard on the wound to stop the bleeding. The truth is that his Dark Night has barely begun; his mind is off the mission now. His thoughts are scattershot, disorganized. He still can’t shake the sight of Gustava’s shredded torso as she bled out in his lap, the sound of Gray Fox’s voice, filtered through the grating that enclosed Metal Gear’s cockpit...

He shuts his eyes and tries to think of _nothing_ : purification of the senses is the first step to purification of the soul. David isn’t a religious man, but the absolution St. John of the Cross finds in oblivion is a universal desire. _‘cesó todo y dejéme, dejando mi cuidado...’_ \- the freedom found in God is similar to the freedom a soldier finds in following orders. Purify the senses and give yourself over to the mission. Everything else will come naturally. The man who taught him that, he -

\- a voice drifts through the mist to answer the hanging couplet of his verse. Snake’s nerves are so shot that at first he thinks he’s hallucinating. “- entre las azucenas olvidado.” _my cares… forgotten among the lilies_. Snake hadn’t realized he’d been speaking aloud, so how could anyone possibly respond? He drops his knife and checks his radio. Maybe he’d left it on since his last briefing? If so, it’d be a disaster; they were using burst communication, but even switching frequencies would be detected if left to dangle for too long. Besides, that voice - it was so familiar. It -

“A blood drenched jungle like this is the last place I thought I’d hear someone mumbling the words of a holy man. Then again, this is you we're talking about.”

The words are accompanied by the dulled clang of a metal cylinder (a cane?) hitting wood. It strikes again and again, in the pattern of an appreciative slow clap. There is only one person Snake knows who expresses condescending approval like that. He leaps to his feet and spins with one hand on his holster. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to see at this point; after all the shit Big Boss has thrown at him it could be anything: a shape-shifter, a man with perfect control of pitch imitating a voice he’d heard Snake speaking to on the radio, a disturbingly realistic hologram... 

The most obvious answer is also the most inexplicable. In the middle of Zanzibar Land’s dark, dense jungle - half a world away from where he’s supposed to be right now - Master McDonnell Benedict Miller is leaning nonchalantly against the spine of a young Kapok Tree looking like he belongs there. He’s got a modified camo poncho slung over his shoulders and he’s wearing a red beret emblazoned with a ‘ZL’, denoting allegiance to Big Boss’ walled nation-state. A scarf of the same colour is tied like an ascot around his neck. His expression, as usual, is impenetrably shrouded by his trademark aviator sunglasses.

“- but I’m proud of you, David,” he says with a very sincere smile. “No other soldier could have made it this far, and no other soldier would still be desperately searching for his soul with so much blood on his hands. You really are one of a kind.”

All Snake can do is rasp his name. “M-Master Miller? What are you… _how_ are you here?”

Miller quirks an eyebrow, amused, and raises his arm. He sweeps his cane through the air and says: “I’ve _always_ been here. This is my home.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m the X.O. of Zanzibar Land. Those are my men you’ve been killing too, David.”

“You-” Snake is faltering. He can’t find the words to respond, he can’t find the presence of mind to make logic out of this. “You’re… a traitor too? How can you have gone over to Big Boss’ side?” _Kyle, Madnar, Gray Fox, it’s too much_.

Miller shakes his head and tsks. His tone turns chiding.“His ‘side’? David, _David_. You really don’t understand - after all this time, your thinking is still too black and white. There was no ‘side’ for me to go over to. That’s the point.”

Miller pushes off from the tree he’s leaning against and walks towards Snake, maneuvering on his cane and fake leg with the ease of a decade’s practice. “The battlefield should not divide soldiers into “ally” and “enemy”. We've talked about this before. The criteria we use to determine these things is entirely arbitrary when you sit down to really think about it, isn’t it?”

“I -” Snake feels younger beneath the harsh scrutiny of Miller’s opaque gaze, like he’s a green cadet falling just short of the Hell Master’s required 110%. Was he supposed to admit that after all this time, he’d still never thought about it that way? He fails to answer the question and Miller sets a friendly, fatherly hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, David. I’m not trying to give you an exam. This is the kind of thing they train you not to think about in the military. Countries - lines on a map. Ideologies - words in a book, rarely followed to the letter, an excuse for domination and exploitation. Religion? Very convenient for excusing social inequalities. Don’t get me wrong - it’s all well and good if it keeps society structured. We need false constructs to function as a species. That's what makes us human. But should soldiers really be forced to die for things that mean nothing to them?”

Snake says nothing. He can feel the parts of himself that philosophize and intellectualize shutting down one by one. The other part of his brain is kicking in - the one that makes him an excellent soldier, the part of him that made Colonel Campbell beg for him to come back this one last time despite how final he’d made his resignation in the wake of Outer Heaven. This part of him watches the world with animal eyes - looks for weaknesses in people’s gaits, faults in their stance. He begins to shut away the things he’s felt about Master Miller in the past ( _teacher, friend, father figure, no, more than th_ -) and forces himself to coldly categorize the man as one thing only: potential enemy.

Miller frowns at Snake’s protracted silence. “Soldiers should be allowed to choose their own cause. Their own comrades. They should be the architects of their own crusades. That’s Big Boss’ dream. That’s the dream of Zanzibar Land.” He pauses and takes his hand off Snake’s shoulder. When he steps back, his sunglasses catch the moonlight for just a moment, flashing bright as he throws his cane to the ground. “That’s the dream that I came here to defend.”

Solid Snake is ready now, all traces of David-the-student buried beneath a shield of confidence carried by a warrior who has never lost a battle. He cocks his head back and forces a thin smile. “You really expect me to fight you like that, Master?”

“Oh, you mean because I’m a _cripple_?” Miller chuckles and grabs the edge of his poncho, folding it over his shoulder to show the shape of a sleek, mechanical prosthetic. “Did you really think that someone like me would let myself _go_? Don’t worry, David - I know that you like a fair fight.”

Snake sets his left heel back to steady himself, preparing for a physical blow ( _the prosthetic looks Russian, probably rigged with a few tricks; usually the joints clamp down with approximately 43% more force than standard human strength_ ), but Miller reaches into the depths of his cloak and pulls out a smoke-grenade. Snake’s eyes fly wide and he dives aside, covering his face to avoid getting choked by the chlorate composition. When he raises his head, Miller is gone. Above, a loudspeaker whines to life and the clap of a spot-light switching on echoes against the jungle canopy. Snake shields his vision against the sudden and harsh light, surprised that he hadn’t noticed the broadcast system in the trees before. 

As the smoke dissipates, Snake’s eyes adjust. He can see now that he wasn’t in an abandoned patch of jungle like he’d thought; hidden beneath palm leaves and ghillie blankets is familiar equipment - ropes, ramps, carefully-dug pit-traps. It’s a military grade obstacle course hidden in the middle of the woods, very similar to the one back at FOXHOUND HQ.

Over the loud-speaker, Miller’s voice cracks crisp and clear.

“How about it, Snake? You up for one last training session with the Hell Master? Show me what you’ve learned!”

_”What do you want?” I asked.  
“To be with you in hell,” he said._

_I laughed. “It’s plain you mean  
to have us both destroyed.”_  
\- **Anna Akhmatova, from 'The Guest'**

 

**1994**

_Show me what you’ve learned._  


David is fumbling with a trap-wire, his gloves made clumsy and slick by the kind of thick, misty rain that only falls on the West Coast, here in a forest cradled on one side by mountains and the other by the Pacific Ocean. It’s the kind of rain that hangs in the air even after it hits the ground. The radio in his ear is crackling loud with the confused whispers of the other FOXHOUND recruits out on this training exercise with him. The confusion started fourty minutes ago when the voice of Roy Campbell - Executive Officer of FOXHOUND and the highest authority in the unit besides Big Boss himself - cut into their radio frequencies and began issuing subtly conflicting orders against Mission Control. Things got unconventional after that as “Mission Control” - their usually trustworthy if somewhat hard-assed survival trainer, Master Miller - began issuing “helpful tips” that led his students straight into cleverly hidden traps.

That’s where David was right now. He’d walked into his trap intentionally and with purpose. The very last thing Campbell had said to them was: _“Mission parameters changed. Miller is now the enemy. Bring him in. Campbell out.”_ What caused the confusion was that he refused to respond to or confirm any queries. Any attempts to call back were met with radio silence. David’s radio beeps to life again with the voice of his comrade, Vibrant Hawk.

“Snake. Going after Miller. What’s your position? Out.”

Instead of answering, David pulls his gloves off with his teeth and uses his bare fingers to loose the last bit of the trap wire’s taut knots. The “C4” on the other end isn’t armed. The worst it will do is trip an alarm and broadcast his failure across half the forest, tipping off his target that someone was closing in. With the trap safely disabled, David drops to his stomach and begins pulling himself through the muddy underbrush.

He has no time to wait for Hawk to help him pincer in on their teacher’s position. He already knows where he’s going, had discerned the purpose of the exercise the moment Campbell’s gruff voice came on over the radio. He is certain that he knows where Master Miller is broadcasting from now, after passing multiple red-herring posts manned by decoys that watched the world through clumsily applied, knock-off sunglasses.

Miller’s transmissions are backed by the steady thrum of rain hitting a roof, meaning that he’s either above the tree-line or nestled in a clearing. He was calling in the trainees one by one, leading them to the traps that probably surrounded his position, to throw the ones who didn’t fall for it off his trail. All David has to do is follow the audial intensity of the rain. It’s not long before he catches the glint of glass between the trees. As he crawls closer, he can see that there is a shadow moving unsteadily in the window. Bingo. The sentry-post is built into the rise of a small hill, formed by two rectangular boulders long lost beneath a sea of soft moss and red peat.

It’s not hard to sneak around the back of the structure with the rain and the wet ground dampening the fall of his footsteps. He walks slowly and carefully, to mitigate the noticeable squelch that accompanies each raise of his heel. The sentry post has no door so Miller’s back is clearly visible the moment David climbs the hill. He’s got a size-too-big raincoat thrown over his tracksuit but he cuts an unmistakable figure with one sleeve empty and his left pant-leg clinging wetly to the inhuman shape of his outdated prosthetic.

David pads his way into the post and sets his empty gun to the back of Miller’s head as soon as he crosses the threshold. Miller goes stiff, but he doesn’t raise his arm, which David allows because the man’s dependent on his crutch for balance.

“I’m gonna guess,” Miller speaks slowly and with surprisingly good cheer, “either Bastard Crow or, judging by the fact you went immediately for the gun, Solid Snake.”

“Gig’s up, Master,” David says. “Good show, though. It almost worked.”

Miller doesn’t respond, which should have been a clue that he was about to do something risky, like using his cane as a pivot to make a hard dodge left and knock the gun from David's hands with the brunt of his skull. The momentum makes the crack hit hard and the gun goes skittering off into the dark corner of the shack. Miller regains his balance using the wall to brace himself and draws his own gun, setting his good foot on David’s weapon and kicking it further away for good measure.

“If that was a loaded gun, I could have shot your brains out,” David says.

“50/50 chance can still mean success,” Miller huffs, clicking the safety off his pistol. “You didn’t even pull the trigger on instinct. David, what have I told you about going easy on people because of something like a few missing limbs? Men who have already lost something take bigger risks than men who haven't.”

David considers their position for a few seconds: Miller steadied by the wall, the distance between them only a few inches off arm's length… he calculates the variables in his head, tracking potential movements like mathematical certainties. When the equations add up, he moves.

The art of CQC is to blend multiple moves into a single, fluid attack. David starts with the roll of his heel and feels his muscles ripple like a wave through his body as he turns a leg pivot into a tackle and then draws his knife with the same motion that he grabs Miller’s wrist and twists it. When he lands on the ball of his right foot, he’s already got the blade against his teacher’s jugular.

Miller grins. “Much better. Go on. Call it in.”

Solid Snake does as he’s told.

*

The air at the rendezvous point behind the gymnasium is tense. Campbell stands beneath an umbrella, his body swallowed by the wide lapels of his standard issue FOXHOUND trenchcoat. Miller paces in front of the students - two rows of some of the unit’s best new recruits, most of them barely out of their teens and all of them soaked to the bone. _“It’s raining today, I bet the Hell Master is going to make you do something tedious outside for ten hours,”_ was a common exaggerated refrain amongst the older soldiers and David was beginning to wonder if there was something to it. Like being miserable and cold would somehow drill his lessons in more surely; etching them in stone, instead of sand.

Miller ceases his pacing and comes to a stop beneath Campbell’s umbrella. He digs his cane into the mud and tips his shades down a half-inch.

“Well,” he says, “that was interesting.”

The soldier beside David lets out a barely audible exhale. Everyone here knows what that tone of voice means - it means that there is probably going to be a written portion to this exam. The first time Miller assigned them an essay after a training exercise, Hawk had complained about it in the mess over dinner, saying _“I didn’t join the military to write fucking research papers”_. Miller caught ear of it as he passed by and smacked him over the head with his cane: _“That’s the goddamn point, soldier.”_

(Later Hawk said: _"He talks big but I think the bastard just likes paperwork."_ )

“Before I say anything else, I’d like to give a round of applause to my co-star.” Miller taps his cane against the ground in place of a second hand to clap with. The soldiers remain standing to attention. 

“I’m afraid I’m not a terribly good actor,” Campbell says, very sincerely.

“Nonsense. You were very authentic, Colonel,” Miller replies. 

Campbell's face softens in embarrassment. He turns his head to address the soldiers: "What you did today was not an exercise of Master Miller's design, but a standard FOXHOUND training protocol. We've gone easy on you so far, but in the future, you should be prepared for your mission parameters to be flexible, unpredictable and occasionally..." the Colonel grimaces before finishing, " - _disagreeable_."

Miller picks up the thread: "This exercise is always an educational experience. I think that we learned a lot about ourselves and each other this evening. I want you to all go cool off with two laps around the field.” He pauses, relishing the tremor of dread positively radiating from his students: “... _and then_ go back to your quarters and write me 750 on what, exactly, we learned. You’re all dismissed.”

The cadets lag through their two laps and begin filtering out, Campbell shaking everyone’s hands as they pass on their way to the showers. David paces himself and finishes third last. As he ducks into the building, Miller stops him with his cane.

“Everyone dismissed except you, Snake. You - come to my office in fifteen minutes. I want to talk to you.”

David hesitates, casting a baleful look downwards at his mud-caked uniform. He doesn’t argue, however. He wouldn’t have joined the military if he were the kind of guy to kick up a fuss over this sort of thing. Before heading to Miller's office, he stops off at the barracks to grab a clean shirt and a light jacket.

He takes the long way around the exterior wall of the mess hall and gymnasium to clear his head and get some air. It always takes him a while to quiet his blood, to get his head back into “civilian mode”. He'd been christened Snake for his ability to “slither” effortlessly and unnoticed into foreign environments, but as with all FOXHOUND codenames, there were a few more components to it once you peeled back the layers. 

The other cadets often joked - with that thin, edged humour that was actually about fear - that he slipped into a cloud of hyperfocus when he was sparring, or “hunting” a target in a field; he pursued victory like a constrictor with the scent of blood, _“you know how they get - so wild they’ll smash their noses against the glass, leaping at shadows with their fangs bared”_. David didn't think of it as bloodlust. He felt it as a primal satisfaction, one that came from using your body like a well-oiled machine in a task that it excels at - all the parts and pistons moving in perfect symphony. 

Any attempt to explain this subjective experience had ultimately failed in the past, which told David that maybe if they saw something dangerous in his eyes when he fought, he would do well to watch for it. That’s why he doesn’t pull the trigger unless he has good reason.

David arrives at the administration building with three minutes to spare. He steps inside and removes his soaked coat, tucking it under his arm. Standing in the narrow hall beneath the harsh, fluorescent lights, he stops to examine his right hand. There is dirt caked under his nails, and an angry, red mark running lengthwise across three of his fingertips from where the trap wire cut into the skin. 

_‘You didn’t even pull the trigger on instinct…’_ David grimaces and wonders if he’s in trouble. If Miller _knew_ how much that sort of calculated, intentional restraint cost, how important it was… well, either way, this wouldn’t be the first time that Miller’s dressed him down in private. He had a vicious reputation, but he never singled a student out - for praise or reprimand - publically. 

With David, however, it's a little different. Miller had, almost immediately, taken a special interest in him - not just as a soldier with particular potential, but as a _person_. They had similar hobbies, shared love of a certain kind of literature, and surprisingly natural rapport when off-duty. Miller, of course, was a consummate professional and did not let that fondness affect how hard he came down in the field, but David is acutely aware of the fact that he is the only first year FOXHOUND recruit with the Master's dog eared copy of _Spring Snow_ sitting at the bottom of his locker.

The door to Miller’s office is open a crack, so David lets himself in. Miller is behind his desk, furiously signing his signature to a stack of paperwork. There’s a bottle of whiskey and two glasses at his side. He gestures for David to sit down, but doesn’t look up. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he says. David slides a chair out from the desk and lowers himself into it carefully, setting his jacket down under him so he doesn’t smear mud over the seat. 

Miller signs off on the last paper with a flourish and puts the stack away. Then he uncaps the whiskey and pours two generous shots, one into each cup. “Here," he says, pushing a glass in David's direction. "Have a drink with me.”

David hesitates; technically, he’s still on duty. He wonders if maybe this is a trick - Miller had a reputation for presenting recruits with unwinnable riddles. That sort of sadism is what earned him the nick-name ‘Hell Master’, but David had figured out pretty quick that it was just his way of efficiently picking apart the personalities of his students while still having a bit of fun. Right now, Miller’s game face is switched off, and there really isn't much of David left to pick at. Miller had his number the moment they met. 

So David makes a careful assessment of the situation and accepts the alcohol. He knocks it back easily (hopes Miller doesn’t notice how easily).

“Good. You gonna relax now, or what?”

“Sir?”

“You’re always wound up so tight. I want to have a conversation, but I don’t want you to take everything _so seriously_.”

David glances up and catches the outline of Miller’s eyes visible beneath his sunglasses. His handsome face hardly shows its age, but he’s got deep wrinkles along his laugh lines. When he’s playing the role of ‘Hell Master’, they’re more like scowl lines, though. David looks away - Master Miller doesn’t need to know how practiced David is at knocking back hard liquor, and he especially does not need to know the effect his softer smiles have on some of his students.

“I’m not tightly wound,” he says. "I just don't see the point in wasting time padding down my words with transparent pleasantries.”

“Mmm hmmm…” Miller leans his chair _waaaay_ back and folds his arm over his stomach, his smile flattening. “On one hand, I like that about you, David. On the other hand, that is exactly the kind of thing someone wound way too tightly says when told that they’re wound too tight. Why don’t you have another shot?”

“I’m technically still on duty.”

“Don’t make me order you to take another drink, soldier. I’m not above it.”

David does as he’s told. Miller grins and taps his fingers against the arm of his chair. “Pour me another too while you’re at it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Enough of this ‘sir’ crap. Do we really gave to go though this song and dance every time we talk? You’re a completely different person face-to-face than you are in the field, you know that?”

Two shots of whiskey is enough to make David bold. With deliberate care, he says: “If you say so, _Master_ Miller.”

“Jesus christ, you’re unbelievable,” Miller says. He hits his glass against the table. “David,” he begins, a bit more seriously this time. ““Join me in a thought experiment, would you? Let’s say... you’re sent into the field. Your Mission Operator betrays you. You’re alone and cannot secure reciprocal communication with your Commanding Officer. The balance of some small Banana Republic’s economic obligation to the United States hangs in the balance. What do you do?”

“You know what I’d do. Wasn’t that the point of today's exercise?”

“Partially. The reason I singled you out is that every other recruit in that field hesitated for a moment. Even those who acted quickly had a single half-second of doubt where they questioned themselves over whose orders to follow. You were the only one who forged ahead - without a single look back - and put a gun to my head. Without waiting for clarification. Without even waiting ten minutes for backup.”

“Do you think I made the wrong call?”

“Of course not; chain of command is everything. If we abandoned that one philosophy in the military, it’d be absolute chaos. I’m curious why you didn’t hesitate.”

David tips back his whiskey shot and then rolls the glass between his thumb and forefinger, watching the way the light plays over the curvature, distorted and fractured, a warped reflection of the room’s stark ceiling. He didn’t hesitate because there was no reason to hesitate. David had discovered at a young age that he possessed a certain talent for turning his conscious objections off temporarily. He saved all his thinking for after the mission. He wasn’t certain how to articulate this to Master Miller without sounding strange. It was this kind of mentality, he was aware, that found him struggling with relationships, had found him shuffled from one foster home to another with disheartening rapidity, unable to reciprocate the sort of openness and care those transient parents seemed to crave.

“I’m… very good at following orders without thinking,” is what he says. _‘I’m not sure I like what that says about me,’_ is what he doesn’t say. Three shots of whiskey and he can be mostly honest, he supposes. He pours himself a fourth. 

“Without thinking?”

“Yeah.”

“That simple?”

“Yup.”

“Okay. Let’s approach this from another angle.” Miller tips the whiskey into his glass for the fourth time. For David, it’s the fifth. Miller holds his shot up and says ‘cheers’, wiggling it impatiently until David humours him and clinks their glasses together. When the shots are downed, Miller begins: “In this scenario, you’re alone in the field, no backup, no on-site support personnel, just you and your radio, alone in the dark. You’re aiming for Alpha Team, right?”

“Yeah.” _‘Aiming’_ wasn’t quite the way David would have put it. Colonel Campbell had told him months ago that Big Boss was keen on scouting him for the Stealth unit. _“The Boss man himself thinks you have a talent for it, recruit. You should be honoured.”_

“Well - that’s how Alpha Team operates, much like the defunct CIA F.O.X. unit that FOXHOUND was based on. One man infiltration operations aren’t just about physical and mental acumen - of which you’ve got plenty. They’re also about personal judgement. When you’re in the field on a mission like this, you might be thousands of miles away from the person who calls your shots. You might as well be on a different planet than them. Any number of things could go wrong. Aerial noise could permanently jam your communication, you could lose your radio, you could be captured by the enemy. Dependence on the chain of command when you’re deep inside enemy territory is a fragile, tenuous thing.”

Miller’s thought experiment is beginning to sound a little like a lecture, so David - without really thinking - says: “You got a point here, Master, or are you just gonna ramble on all night?”

Miller’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline and he chuckles, impressed rather than annoyed. He leans forward and makes a great show of peering at the half-empty bottle of whiskey. “Amazing. And it only took a third of a quart of hard liquor for you to loosen up.”

“I shouldn't have-”

“Don’t apologize. Shit, you nearly cracked a grin. This is a historic moment. C’mon, let’s have another.”

So they do. Miller takes this shot sloppy - a line of bright liquor dribbles down his jaw, catching in the cleft of his chin. It’s the sort of detail David would have had the self control not to notice with less alcohol in him. It wasn’t uncommon for younger recruits - female _and_ male - to harbour a crush on McDonnel Miller. He wasn’t like the other high ranking FOXHOUND officials; there was a dressed down elegance to him despite his uneven gait, and an easy-going charisma that seemed to have a switch on and off depending on whether he was on the job or not. He was a good drill instructor because he made people want to impress him. His recriminations hurt more because his rare compliments sounded sincere.

David realizes that there is probably a good measure of calculated artifice to his approachability, but it's hard not to fall for it, to believe that most of it is real.

“I’d say it’s just me showing my age, but the Boss always said that I have a bad habit of never being able to shut my damn mouth. Says I love the sound of my voice too much.”

“You mean Big Boss?”

“Yeah. Who the hell else would I mean? He uh,” Miller laughs to himself and trails off. David realizes with a numb sort of fascination that his teacher is _tipsy_ off just four shots of whiskey. Well, of course he is; two less limbs means a lower alcohol tolerance, but it’s still a delicate, humbling sight. The FOXHOUND staff often seemed impenetrably worldly with their zig-zag military careers and dossiers filled to the brim with classified information. David files away this humanizing knowledge: “Hell Master” Miller cannot hold his liquor.

He lets Miller grin to himself over some private joke for about a minute before leaning forward and clearing his throat. “Master?”

Miller rocks back in his spinning chair. “David?”

“You were saying?”

“Ah - right. What I’m trying to say is that today’s exercise was meant to be an examination of your personal judgement up against the chain of command. It was not meant to be a pass/loss trial to see who follows orders best.”

“And I failed to show good judgement?”

“I wouldn’t come down that hard. No one involved in the exercise really succeeded on that front. And that’s fine - you weren’t prepared. And in the real world, no one is prepared for an outcome like their immediate superior betraying them. But it’s not unheard of. But let’s extrapolate those orders a bit. Say you’re told to bring the target in at all costs, but your communications cut out before you can receive clarification on what sort of state you’re supposed to bring them back in. You have no idea what kind of informtion they could have.”

“I bring them in alive for questioning.”

“They fight back.”

“I… take them in alive.”

“It’s not always that easy. He won’t be taken alive."

"Tough for him. I take him in alive."

"He fights back. Hard. Your life is in danger. He does something risky - this is a man with everything to lose. You fumble, like you did today, and now he’s got the advantage. But he’s not like me, and this isn't a training exercise - that advantage means a bullet in his head or a bullet in yours. You’re looking into the eyes of someone you trust. You know that they might pull the trigger before you do. In fact, they probably will.”

David takes initiative and fills the glasses without being told this time. He takes his time with his shot, sets the rim of the glass against his lip and lets the taste of the whiskey linger in his throat. “Are we,” David asks quietly, “talking about _Operation: Snake Eater_?”

No one dared to invoke it casually, but everyone in FOXHOUND knew the now legendary story of how Big Boss obtained his code-name. Not the “real” story, of course - even the version that official military personnel heard was stripped bare of full context, boiled down to the bones, the same kind of pithy soundbites that the CIA was forced to concede to the national newspapers. 

Miller’s countenance turns serious and he reaches for the bottle again. “Not specifically,” he says. “Not in so many words. But it’s a good illustration of how what we believe to be the ‘Truth’ as told to us by our superiors is defined only by who is giving the orders, and who is hearing them. ‘Enemy’ and ‘ally’ are arbitrary definitions that can change in a flash on the battlefield. These are things you’d do well to think about, David. They’re not things that your superiors can decide for you.”

David does think about it, but it’s not the most pressing matter on his mind at the moment. He sets his cup on the desk and pins Miller with an intense stare. It doesn't have its desired effect, unfortunately, since Miller's not actually looking at him.

“Master Miller. You aren’t going to have this conversation with anyone else, are you?”

“Hmm?” Miller’s attention wanders and he eventually makes eye contact with David. It’s difficult to read his exact expression with those antique aviators dominating so many of his facial features, but the quirk of his mouth and the way his eyebrows pinch into a light furrow sure make it seem like he’s abashed. Interesting. “Ah… no, no. I didn’t plan on it.”

“Why single me out?”

“Are you worried that I’ve singled you out unfairly?”

“The opposite, actually. I’m worried that you’re giving me an unfair hand up. I’m not the only recruit on base applying for Alpha Team.”

“No, you aren’t.” Miller’s silent for a moment. A long, strained moment punctuated only by the waning rainstorm pounding a din against the tiny window. Miller frowns and raps his fingers against the arm of his chair in uneven staccato. The lines on his face twitch like he’s getting halfway through opening his mouth before thinking better of it.

“Well,” he says, sounding a bit defeated. “You caught me. I try not to play favourites, but it doesn’t always work. I worry about you, David. You have a lot of qualities that say you’re made for this job. I try to imagine you doing some white collar gig and it seems wrong, you know? But you’ve also got a lot of qualities that tell me that when something finally does hit you - and it always does, in this line of work - it’s gonna hit you like a train going four hundred kilometres an hour. Ah, sorry -” Miller taps his temple. “Two hundred and fourty eight point five _miles_. I always forget.”

“Master, I-” _am honoured? Flattered_? What’s the word for it? David is frozen in his seat wishing suddenly and quite desperately that he was anywhere else right now, doing something easier like weapon storage inventory or one hundred push ups. He’s now aware that this situation is incredibly inappropriate. Miller’s right: he is a completely different person on the field than off of it. The person he is off the field doesn’t have the life experience to exit this conversation gracefully and the person he is on the field doesn’t want to.

Miller mercifully puts him out of his misery by attempting to stand up. He doesn’t make it all the way the first time. He glances up at Snake, clearly embarrassed. “Heh, that’s what I get, trying to keep up with you at my age. Could you, ah, get the door for me?”

David does as he’s told, hitching the door open while his inebriated teacher struggles to his feet. Miller succeeds this time, using his crutch to steady himself. When he’s standing, he adjusts his sweater, caps the whiskey and clumsily scuttles the bottle and the glasses into the top shelf of his desk. “It’s getting late. Sun’s gone down. I should let you go. You’ve got work to do tonight, after all.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, we’re back to ‘Sir’ again.” Miller sighs. “Well! I tried.” Standing up, he seems drunker. There's a sway to his steps that suggests he'd started in on the whiskey even before David arrived.

When Miller crosses beneath the door-frame, his cane slips out from beneath him and he nearly takes a dive. David moves fast and manages to catch him before his skull hits the wall. The door swings shut behind them, trapping David in the darkening office with Master Miller pressed up against his chest, Miller’s arm slung all the way around his neck and his breath warming the skin beneath his left ear. David’s fingers tighten instinctively around the swell of his upper arm and the hard arch of his rib-cage. He's momentarily surprised by how dense Miller’s muscles are under the loose gym-clothes. But of course, David chides himself, _why would a guy like Miller let himself go over something as minor as a war wound_?

They stay entangled long enough for it to become uncomfortable. When Miller speaks, what he says is: “Interesting. For someone so quick to violence on the field, you’re surprisingly gentle.”

And that's just - his voice is _low_ , almost… and David is certain that he’s misinterpreting this, but Miller’s tone has shades of flirtation. He almost convinces himself that it would be an objective interpretation to call it _“sultry”_.

But that can’t be it. Miller is drunk and tends to tease even when sober. The responsible thing to do would be to apologize, to let go and help his teacher out the door. There’s a part of David, however, that always speaks in a traitorous voice in the back of his skull, reminding him that he’s the kind of person who doesn’t always have to be responsible. He’s the kind of man who can very easily get exactly what he wants. That’s why it’s important for him to be so _careful_. That is why he's not going to test the boundaries of his teacher's favoritism, even though something is telling him that he's just been invited to do exactly that.

David pushes Miller away and sets both hands on the man’s shoulders. He keeps them, just there to make certain that he’s not going to topple back over.

“Doing okay there, Master?”

Miller raises his hand to rub beneath his sunglasses. David catches a flash of his eyes beneath the shades; his irises are an oddly pale shade of grey. “I haven’t drunk in a while. Should have been more careful. You recruits are brutal in more ways than one.” He rolls his shoulders out from under David’s hands and shoots him a lopsided grin. “I’m fine now, David,” he says.

David takes a wide berth on his way back to the door, blood thrumming in his ears. He holds it open for Miller and gives him a quick, respectful salute.

Before they go their separate ways in the hall, Miller turns back and says: “Hey - don’t forget what we talked about today.”

David cracks a cocksure grin. “Do I still have to write the essay?”

“Don’t think that I’ve gone soft on you, soldier. I expect it on my desk at 5AM sharp, along with everyone else’s.”

“Typical.”

Miller laughs. “You’re a good kid," he says, then he ambles down the hall, humming to himself off tune.

David watches him go - the taste of whiskey on his tongue and the memory of Miller's shape in his palms - and thinks: _No, I'm really not._.

**NOTE:** _all surveillance recorded in the C.O.’s office is scheduled to be destroyed pending examination and approval by a senior staff member_ \- by order of Roy Campbell  
 **NOTE:** _approved_ \- M.B.Miller

[CLICK]

( _door clicks open then slams back shut._ )

“Evenin’ Boss.”

“Mmm.”

“Another successful day of playing the affable mentor - aren’t you going to ask me how it went?”

“... Kaz, are you drunk?”

“That kid can _really_ hold his liquor.”

“I see.”

“And not in a ‘oh, I guess he’s your son after all’ way. In a ‘I’m really worried he spends a lot of his free time crawling into the bottle already and he’s only twenty-two’ way. Tell Roy to get someone to search his quarters, would you.”

“Worried about him?”

“What? C’mon - someone’s gotta take a paternal interest in him and we both know it’s not going to be you.”

"I've not washed my hands of him entirely. Not the way you seem to think. There are things I plan to teach him, Kaz. Things that he can only learn from me. Not as his father, but as his superior."

"Funny that _I'm_ the one they call 'Master'."

( _stumbling steps cross the floor, out of synch. ------ eases into a chair. a sigh_ )

“So. Which way do you think David is going to jump?”

“When it comes down to the wire? It’s hard to tell. That kid lives inside his head too much. He won’t be like you - all instinct until the unimaginable happens. He’ll think it through. More likely than not, he’ll just do what he’s told.”

“Good to get him thinking about it now, I suppose.”

“In the end, it doesn’t ultimately matter who comes out on top.”

“Hnh. Those paternal feelings of yours disappeared pretty quick, Kaz.”

“Personal feelings and business don’t mix, Boss. Don’t worry - I learned that lesson from you a long time ago.”

“If you wear a mask, your face will grow to fit it, _Master_ Miller.”

“Have you even _read_ Orwell’s essays?”

“Give me some credit, Kaz.

“Hmph. Well - I might be two faced, but at least both faces are still good looking. Don’t you feel privileged that I don’t hide anything from you anymore, so you get a nice long look at both of them?”

“Speaking of which... a mutual friend of ours dropped something off for you today. Something that you’ve been wanting to see for a long time.”

( _the creak of a chair as ------ leans; the slick sound of paper moving over paper. an envelope is carefully ripped open. a sharp intake of breath follows._ )

“... hah. _Hah_! I knew he couldn’t hide forever... and his son is with him too. After everything that happened, he couldn’t bear keeping his nose to the ground, living under a fake name. What a piece of shit.”

“Don’t do anything about it right now, Kaz. Wait until the Operation is over. One thing at a time.”

“I know.”

“I know you know, but when it comes to this sort of thing, you can be... impatient.”

“Heh, damn right I’m impatient.”

( _uneven legs hit the linoleum, followed briefly by the sound of a spinning chair groaning on its legs and the clatter of several things falling off a desk._ )

“... heh heh, oops.”

“You’re really on a roll tonight.”

“I got a foot in the door to an incredibly unethical seduction on your orders, the least you could do is help clean up.”

“I never actually told you to handle David that way. That was your decision.”

“If this is how you’re gonna be, maybe I should go track him down after all. He was very eager to take care of me.”

“ _Kaz_ -”

“Woah, hey - I’m not actually going to do it. I was just trying to piss you off. It’s remarkably hard to get you riled up these days.”

“You’re getting old too, Kaz, too old to have this little self control.”

“Oh _nevermind_.”

( _tap, tap, tap. the desk creaks quietly as ------ hoists up to sit on it. a moment passes with only the sound of pen scratching over paper filling the room._ )

“Hey Snake, remember that time... oh, back in early ‘73 I think? When we got the jeep stuck in the mud by the Rio Palmonia?”

“Was that when you dragged me halfway across the country to talk to that mining magnate about providing security to his mines? And I said no?”

“Yeah.”

“Heh... you were furious with me. I think that was the first time I’d ever seen you really angry, not just puffing up your feathers for show. _‘Shit costs money, Boss’_!”

“Shit _does_ cost money. I couldn’t understand why you’d turn down such easy bank when you were willing to work for the Colombian government.”

“He wanted to hire us for all the wrong reasons. He wanted to make us _his_ private army.”

“I get it now... but at the time... “

“You gave me the silent treatment for eight hours. What is that - the longest you’ve kept your mouth shut in your entire life?”

( _the sound of something small being thrown - a pen, or maybe a bullet casing - whistles through the air and hits fabric._ )

“Funny stuff, Boss. But y’know... I never told you what was going through my head the whole time. I was angry, yeah, but it was more than that. I was having second thoughts about the whole thing. You might have been a living legend, but the MSF was barely holding together at the seams and you threw out as many of my good ideas as you kept. The whole thing was beginning to feel like emptying the ocean with a teaspoon. And I told you, I-”

“- didn’t want to live like a pauper.”

“Mmm. So I was trying to figure out if I could make a decent break for it the next time we stopped for gas and food. You’d made it more than clear that my only option outside the MSF was execution at your hands. I was trying to figure out if I could outrun you, outsmart you - lose you in a crowd if we got to a big enough a town... I spent the entire eight hours mapping out complex escape strategies in my head and preparing myself for what would happen if you caught me. Asking myself if I was prepared to die over this. I can’t believe how cool I kept it - inside, I was panicking. I’d never felt so trapped as I did in the carriage of that shitty jeep, driving back to Barranquilla with you. Not before, not since. Not even when... god, not even when I was in the hole in Afghanistan. At least there, I knew - one way or the other - that it would _end_.”

“Then, if we hadn’t gotten stuck in the mud... “

“Would you have killed me?”

“I don’t know. It’s impossible to know. It’s not a decision I would have made ahead of time.”

“Of course not. Thank god for that rainstorm, then.”

“Is that why you...?”

“Stuck my hand in your pants once we were finished hollering at each other? Pretty much. You know me - I have a few tricks up my sleeve when my back is up against the wall, and that one often works. Not with you, though. You just punched me in the nose and told me to have a little self control.”

“When you think about it, not much has changed.”

“No, Boss. A lot of things have changed.”

“Still. A strange time to share a secret you’ve been sitting on for twenty years.”

“I’m really goddamn drunk right now.”

“What made you think of it?”

“Sometimes... I need to remind myself... “

( _a protracted silence; the tape skips._ )

“Kaz?”

( _very softly_ ) “... sometimes I wake up from dreams where I still have two hands, and both of them are around your throat.”

“Remind me not to let you sleep in my bed next time you come knocking.”

“It’s not a _fucking_ joke.”

( _a beat of silence, followed by a bitter laugh._ )

“- and sometimes, Boss, I wonder what it would have been like if... ”

“You wouldn’t have won.”

“Your ego gets more unbelievable by the year, Snake. You always underestimate me... “

“No, Kaz. I understand you.”

“You don’t think that I could have taken you down. Not even if I _really_ put my mind to it?”

“That’s not it entirely. I don’t think you could pull the trigger.”

“Ahaha... _Snake_ , of course I couldn’t. That’s why I would have gotten someone else do it.”

“You would have done that to David?”

“Honestly? Yeah - in a heartbeat, if it got me what I wanted.”

( _a very light chuckle of amusement. the chair’s wheels go spinning out across the floor and the desk is rocked by the impact of bone and muscle being slammed against the it. papers rustle, something heavy hits the floor._ )

“Oh, _now_ you want to fuck.”

[CLICK]


	2. [1985] FLASHBACK: RECONCILIATION I

 

**1985**

“Take a walk, Pequod.”

“Commander Miller?”

Kaz lifts himself out of the helicopter palette and winces as his feet hit dirt. The air on the African mainland is thick with afternoon heat even two hours after sunset. Kaz breathes it in, feels the humidity settle beneath the folds of his coat. He’s already longing for the comforting salt scent and cool breeze of ocean air. The sight of the Angolan Serengeti just reminds him of all the shit he saw trying to scrape out a merc’s living in the twilight years of the Bush War.

“You heard me. Take a walk. A long walk. This area has been secured ahead of time, so don’t worry. Come back in an hour.”

Pequod is young and loyal and doesn’t ask many questions, which is why he’s often the one chosen to fly ACC on the kind of missions Kaz and Ocelot don’t want the troops gossiping too much about: Parasites and Sahelanthropus and SANAR… Pequod’s seen a lot of shit in the last year, he won’t think anything of Commander Miller asking to be alone in the middle of nowhere for sixty minutes. The troops are all convinced Kaz is nuts anyway, which is fine. He doesn’t need them to _like_ him anymore - they just need to listen to him. 

Pequod grabs a rifle and hops out of the chopper, shooting Kaz one last worried glance. Kaz waits until his silhouette is indistinguishable from the tall grass before slipping his hand into his jacket pocket and switching on the radio transmitter he’s been carrying for the last few days. It’s old MSF technology - a unique patent of theirs, in fact, tweaked by Huey to respond only to equipment attuned by him and Strangelove. It’s invisible to all other potential trackers and hasn't been turned on since the _70's_.

With the device on, Kaz lets out a long, shaky breath and rests his back against the helicopter. He’s fulfilled his side of the bargain, against his better judgement. All he has to do now is wait. It’s a familiar feeling - the freedom of putting all the power into Big Boss’ hands. The last time he did this, he was betrayed. Who knows what’ll happen this time.

What happens is that after minutes and minutes of thought-eating silence, the sound of an antique motorcycle’s engine roars to life in the distance. A 1970 Triumph Bonneville. Kaz has never been a gearhead, but he’d know the sound of that particular model even if he was dead. He shuts his eyes and listens to it close in. He listens to the keys jingling as the ignition is clicked off. He listens to the engine rev down, to the squeak of leather gloves tightening around the bike’s handlebars as the driver swings himself out of the saddle. The bike creaks against the weight of Big Boss leaning back against it. Kaz doesn’t need to see him to imagine the way he’s standing right now: all casual and cool, his arms crossed, his right fingers twitching for lack of a cigar in them. 

Kaz laughs quietly. " _This_ time you came.”

“You asked so nicely.”

Kaz breathes in sharp through his teeth. He tries to open his eyes, but he can’t. Last time, it was a lie, a fabrication… but even if it’s real, what do you say to a man like Big Boss when you haven't seen him in ten years? Kaz can't do this a second time, he did it once already - bled this blood once already, swallowed back his pain and smiled with broken pride ( _“What took you so long?”_ ) once already. That last semblance of innocence, that last inch of his old self... he’d saved it and stored it so carefully, so _desperately_ \- like a chipped china mug on the top shelf - and it had been wasted on a _photo-copy_.

“So I received this funny missive from the new Mother Base.” Snake unfurls a crumpled piece of paper and holds it up. Kaz finally looks and immediately wishes he hadn’t. It’s a poster. “ ‘Big Boss is Watching You’? Kaz, _really_? You’re usually smoother than this.”

“I know you haven’t been awake for long, Boss, but it’s actually been more than ten years. That’s really the first thing you’re gonna say to me?”

Snake has the presence of mind to look at least a little bit contrite. He rolls up the poster and sticks it in his pocket. Then he pushes off his bike and approaches Kaz with all the assumed intimacy of their relationship circa 1975. It hurts, that he looks so healthy and whole. His beard is thinner than usual and flecked grey, but other than that he looks like he's stepped straight out of the past unscathed. The mixture of jealousy and desire that coils at the bottom of Kaz's stomach at the sight of him is as heavy and poisonous as lead. He bristles when Big Boss grabs the empty arm of his coat and lifts it.

“You’re so vain, Kaz. How did you stand it?”

“I didn’t,” Kaz responds dryly.

“I can see that now.” He drops the sleeve and looks the rest of Kaz over. “You know. I had no idea about this, not at the time.”

“Are you making excuses? That’s not like you.”

“No, I suppose it’s not.”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference if I had lost all four limbs or none at all. It doesn’t change what you did and nothing in the world would make you apologize. So it doesn’t matter.”

“Then why did you want to see me? You went through quite an effort to track me down. Good timing too - I won’t be in this part of the world for long.”

“I…” it's a good question. Why did he bother? What was he trying to prove? After holding onto his anger quietly for months, standing at the Phantom’s side with a strained expression while Ocelot used his bullshit self-hypnosis techniques to feign ignorance… what did he think seeing Big Boss’s face would prove? _You know why, Kazuhira_ , he tells himself. Hate’s just the flipside of the other thing, _the thing you never say, not even to yourself_.

“I,” Kaz swallows hard, speaks soft. “I… wanted to see if you’d actually come.”

Big Boss arches an eyebrow, “Mmm hmm. No ulterior motives? No grand scheme? You just came to waste my time?”

Kaz has to snap his jaw shut to stop himself from screaming. Patience, _he’s here on your terms for once, after all_.

\- then Snake puts his hand on his shoulder and says: "But, Kaz you know, despite all that... you did good. "

And that's just too far over the fucking line, so Kaz spits in his face.

Snake wipes the spit from his cheek slowly - with one knuckle - and he grins. “ _There_ we go. Let’s talk face to face now. You wanna ‘send me to hell’, huh?”

“Did you come here to put an end to that??”

Snake shakes his head, “honestly, Kaz, it sounds like fun. It’s been awhile since you’ve tried to rope me into one of your little contests. Trying to defeat me… using another version of me. Interesting tactic.”

“Is that what you think this is!?”

“You don’t half-ass the things you commit to. And I’m not going to stop you from doing what you want.”

“Not even if I _misappropriate_ your resources?”

“You’ve done good by him so far. Diamond Dogs is your operation - it was always meant to be your operation. I’m sure Ocelot’s explained to you how things are going to be from now on.” Big Boss reaches out to cup Kaz’s face between his hands. Kaz considers ducking away, avoiding the touch, but he doesn’t. He bears the contact stoically. Big Boss strokes his thumbs down his cheekbones. “As long as you’re clear on that, I promise not to step on your toes.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Kaz whispers, but he doesn’t back off.

“Let’s be honest, Kaz: so are you.” Snake kisses him almost chastely, like the kiss is a signature on a contract - a necessary chore, like Big Boss is using the memory of what they used to be as leverage in a business deal, oh Kaz _knows_ that language, all right. Knows when the boxes are being ticked. That wakes something up in him - he bites down on Snake’s lip and dives into the kiss desperately, sucks back like he’s trying to eat Snake’s dark, ugly soul out through his mouth. 

Kaz throws his arm up and hooks his crutch around Snake’s neck - it throws off their balance and forces Snake to grab his hips and pull their bodies taut together to stop them from falling over. Snake hoists Kaz into the helicopter’s pallette. He leans him back just _enough_ that Kaz is still dependent on him for balance. When they come up for air, Big Boss asks: “Okay. What do you want?”

“Huey Emmerich killed.”

“Such a low price? _Kaz_ , I can’t believe you’d underestimate your own market value like that.”

“That’s not all,” Kaz digs his fingers into Snake’s skull and pulls him down so that he can whisper in his ear. “Who are the Patriots? What is the Philosopher’s Legacy? You and Zero - what are you fighting over?”

He can feel Snake’s lips twitch against his neck. “Cipher never told you?”

“Oh - I know most of the story, but Zero was careful about what puzzle pieces he handed to me. But that’s not what I care about. I want to hear the story - _the whole story_ \- in your words. I want _you_ to explain it to _me_. To tell me all the shit you were hiding for me.”

“The ‘shit’ _I_ was hiding from _you_?” Big Boss laughs. “You’re incredibly presumptuous, Kaz.”

“Haven’t I always been?”

Big Boss presses a wet kiss to Kaz’s chin and says: “yeah. Can’t believe your nerve sometimes.” He runs his hand along the inside of Kaz’s thigh and presses his thumb right to the pulse of the saphenous vein. Against his better judgement, Kaz eases his limbs apart, lets Big Boss nudge a knee between and rock against him. 

“But haven’t I,” Kaz’s voice hitches, “- always done good work for you?”

“Debatable. You’ve done good work for just about everyone else too.”

That ruins the illusion. Kaz snaps back to his senses. He tries to pull away but can’t, so instead he fists his hand in Big Boss’s hair and yanks him up so that they’re eye-to-eye. “Are you… are you accusing me of being _unfaithful_?”

“You sleep with other people. You make deals behind my back. You’ve many times withheld important information from me for your own benefit. Tell me, Kaz: when have you ever _in any definition of the word_ been faithful to me?”

Kaz can’t find a witty retort for that. His lip twists the way it does the half second before he cracks a joke, but his mouth is dry and empty. What Big Boss has said is factually true, but how… how could he think that? _Rip open my chest and look at my heart and then say that again. There’s nothing in there but you and your big fucking head and your long fucking shadow that blacks everything out, sucks all the air from my lu-_

“Y-you want faithful, you piece of shit? I kept the embers of your dream burning for nearly a _decade_ while you slept pretty in one of Zero’s secret hospitals. I was out there working for you. _Fighting_ and _bleeding_ for you! I bore your crosses! I -” Kaz lets go of Snake’s hair and gropes for his cane so that he can smack him with it. “- I gave half my body for you, asshole, and you have the gall to call me unfaithful!? _No one_ is more faithful to you than me. Not Ocelot, not Zero, not that woman who carried the clones in her womb, not -”

Big Boss reaches out and covers Kaz’s mouth, smothering the rest of his rant with leather. Saving him the embarrassment. “Always so competitive, Kaz,” Snake teases, brushing Kaz’s hair out of his face with his other thumb. He’s smiling with unabashed fondness.

Kaz briefly considers biting his palm hard enough to draw blood, but he doesn’t. He waits.

“Calm down. I’ll tell you everything. There’s only one thing I want in return.” Big Boss slowly removes his hand. “Just one thing you need to promise me.”

“What is it?”

Snake puts his mouth to Kaz’s ear and says it so, so quietly that it’s nearly drowned out by the sound of Kaz’s own heart-beat. He says: “ _Surrender_.”

It’s a game they used to play. At least Kaz always thought it was a game: a joke about the way they met, a joke about how stubborn they both were - Snake’s pathological need for dominance mirrored by Kaz’s almost petulant refusal to admit defeat, even with a gun to his temple. Only now - over a decade later - does he realize that Snake _meant_ it. Every goddamn single time, he meant it. 

This is his last chance to decide, to choose which side of the line to plant his feet on. _But what choice do I really have?_ Kaz imagines his future if he says no: imagines himself trying to let go of his pain, throwing away his fourteen years lost to feed Big Boss’ legacy, tries to imagine himself just… walking away. Kaz knows himself better than that. _It’s pathetic. I’m stuck in his shadow no matter what I do. I shouldn’t have come here_. 

The choices are submission or obsession; revenge or subservience. There is no third path, so why not just give Big Boss what he wants? 

Kaz exhales, closes his eyes and lets his head fall back to bare his throat. “Okay. I give up,” he says. “Take everything, Boss.” _I’ve got nothing left_.

Big Boss just laughs at him. “The way you said it... I almost believe you.”

 

[CLICK]

( _the distant sound of sea-breeze and seagulls, occasionally a sigh. punctuated by the smooth roll of wheelchair tires against steel, approaching from the distance. the chair squeaks to a stop._ )

“Coyote - who thinks himself clever - sets off into the wilderness to slay a giant that he has heard of. In his arrogance, he walked straight into the giant’s mouth thinking that it was a cave. In that cave, he met many captives of the giant’s hunger and because he used his stick to cut flesh from the sides of the giant’s throat, he thought himself a hero.”

“Everyone else finds this act cute, Old Man, but I think we know each other well enough at this point that you can cut the crap.”

“The kind of devotion that the Boss man evokes in these people... I would liken it to a warrior god of old. Zeus, Odin, Dine Bahane himself... but you’ve always struck me more as Coyote; the spanner in the works, a clever beast with a silver tongue. It’s strange for the Raven to sit on a man’s shoulder as if that man were his Master.”

“Funny how you’re still talking in metaphor. If you wanna have a conversation about this, you’re gonna have to do it in plain-speak.”

“As you wish. You went to see him, yes? The man that you call Big Boss. The man that the Ocelot calls John?”

“...”

“Your countenance has changed. You walk with purpose once more, but the serenity that surrounds you is a dark one.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Kazuhira, my children can see through your eyes as clearly as they can see through my own. When you look at him, he eats all the light. You can see nothing else. Whatever decision you made in his presence... the clarity of it cannot be trusted.”

“Hnh.”

“Surely you don’t intend to make me spell out what I mean in incriminating detail, not in a place like this where we are never free from the cameras.”

“Well - I’m the final authority on what happens with that security footage, so if that’s your concern you’ve already ‘walked into the mouth of the giant’.”

“I see. Commander Miller is watching us, indeed.”

“I’m tired, Old Man. Please, just say what you mean.”

“... Kazuhira. I do not think that you have made a good decision. To forgive the man that you call Boss after what he has done... it may feel like a bandage over your heart, but you are selling your soul.”

“Hah. Rich. Haven’t you been working for Big Boss this whole time as well?”

“For an old man like me who has walked a long and bloody path, there is very little choice now that I am at the twilight of my life. The more bones that line the road - the more corpses put there by my hands - the fewer branches I will come across. I have accepted my lot, to be used as a pawn by Zero’s bickering “sons”. My fate has narrowed to a point so thin that it could fit on the end of a needle. But Kazuhira, you are still young.”

“I’ve got a lot of blood on my hands too, Old Man. And a lot of it is the same blood as what’s on Snake’s hands. I’ve been treading over the same corpses as him for a long time now. You walked your bloody path alone, but I forged mine hand in hand with someone else. That was a decision I made with eyes _clear_. You couldn’t possibly understand.”

“I am very, very old Kazuhira. I have also been in love.”

“Wh- _what_?”

“More than once, even.”

“Just what the hell are you trying to say!?”

“That you - despite all your pride and your intelligence and your ambition - are willing to make yourself subservient to the will of another. Not because it’s good business, or because it is something you believe in, but because of your personal feelings.”

“I -”

“ _Kazuhira_. I want you to think long and hard about what exactly it is that Big Boss wishes to accomplish. Tell me in your own words what it is.”

“A world united without borders, where soldiers can be free of the petty machinations of politicians and nations.”

“You recite this as if you are reciting a memorized speech. You are telling me the content of his dream, Kazuhira, but not the context. The meaning. What does it mean - this thing that the man you call ‘Boss’ strives for?”

“...”

“Is it not your dream as well? This warrior’s paradise? The world in which your Mother Base is meant to be a microcosm? This world that we are preparing? You are an intelligent man, Kazuhira Miller. You are not so naive as to accept such an audacious claim without extrapolation. What does it mean: a world without borders, built for and by soldiers? What does this world look like for the rest of us?”

“...”

“Surely you have imagined it?”

“I’ve imagined it.”

“Then tell me about it.”

“I don’t like your tone, Old Man. The Boss and I... the MSF was a conclusion we reached in the dark years of the Cold War. Back then, LBJ and Khrushchev thought that they had the right to speak for every single person who lived on the planet. Can you imagine a world in which the Mujahadeen speak with the same authority as the USSR? That’s the world that we imagined.”

“You’re a very convincing liar, Kazuhira, but don’t forget: I was like you when I was young. Worse than you, actually. I bought into my own bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit.”

“You’re an organized man, the kind of man who derives satisfaction from straightening a stack of paperwork that has been signed and stamped. You don’t have to lie to me right now - I can see through your eyes. You agreed with Zero more than you’ve ever agreed with Big Boss, am I right?”

“I -”

“A united world with no national armies. All wars will be fought as proxies and politicians will stumble over themselves to slip the largest check into your hands. That is the cynical Pax hegemony you felt was inevitable. I saw a glint in your eye when I spoke of my original plan for the parasites. Deterrence is a kind peace. It keeps the Big Men of history from dropping nukes on civilians.”

“No, I -”

“The Boss wants something different - a return to borderless, tribal chaos. He positions himself a warlord of old. Would you stand by his side in a world like this?”

“...”

“Your world-views are essentially at odds and the longer you try to pretend that you and he are in harmony, the more discordant and sick your soul will become. You will have no inner peace.”

“You know, I honestly can’t remember ever asking for your goddamn opinion on this.”

“Is Big Boss’s world the world your mother longed for when she chose to name you ‘Peace’? Ten hours in labour - back then it was still dangerous for a woman to carry a child so young. Her life would have been easier were you born looking like her, but she cherished your blue eyes, didn’t she?”

“What are you -”

“It’s what’s in your eyes right now, Kazuhira. She was afraid, but when she saw your blue irises, she was secretly grateful - she was a woman who believed that we could be better than we are, that’s why she -”

“Get the _fuck_ out of my head!”

“... I apologize.”

“I never should have told you... any of that... Never should have...”

“... perhaps not.”

( _the conversation stills. there is a long moment of silence punctuated only by laboured breathing._ )

“Code Talker. You’ve helped us immeasurably, but I can’t help but think you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

“I see.”

“Mother Base doesn’t have the resources to spare to keep civilians safe and cozy indefinitely. This isn’t your retirement home. You have a week to put your affairs in order, but after that, we’re shipping you out.”

“If that is what you wish.”

“Yeah. It is.”

[CLICK]


	3. [1995] Foxhound HQ

**1990**

“Mornin’ Boss!”

“Boss!”

“Come train with me Boss!”

DD’s paws hit the steel first. He barks and goes off barrelling towards the small congregation of soldiers that have gathered at the sound of Pequod blasting Rod Stewart above the dock. Snake moves slower. He’s covered in engine grease and other people’s blood; a bullet grazed his thigh and he twisted his wrist falling off a truck, so he’s in no mood to tussle with the men today. He lets DD handle the brunt of morale boosting - he's good at that, so filled with infectious energy and enthusiasm for human contact. As Snake drags himself from the helicopter, he gives each soldier a weary smile and polite salute. Then he passes them by, and heads for the office.

It’s a beautiful day - preternaturally still in the way only the middle of the ocean can be. No insects, birds - even the sound of the sea-water lapping again Mother Base's legs has a muted comfort to it. It's nothing like the piercing howl wind makes when it rolls over the sand dunes. Today, it's especially quiet. Will be quiet from now on. Ocelot departed - _permanently_ \- at the beginning of the month and Snake has not yet had time to delegate drill organization to another soldier. Or rather, he hasn’t wanted to; this is the kind of thing Kaz usually does, after all, and Snake doesn’t like the to acknowledge the slow bleed of Mother Base’s oldest staff members. Malak, Silent Basilisk, Flaming Buffalo, Komodo Dragon: all lost to legitimate job offers in their home countries, or dead to missions gone awry halfway across the world. So many new faces... the nature of the job means that they cycle in and out so frequently it’s almost pointless to learn their names.

But he does anyway. Because that’s what it means to be the Boss.

When he opens the door to his office, he’s surprised to see that it’s already occupied. Kaz is seated behind the desk at his old post, flipping through the recent personnel reports with a severe expression on his face. Snake’s heart lifts immediately; Kaz has been busy with so much off-base work lately that it’s been months since they’ve been in the same room. With Ocelot gone, maybe he’ll get to see Kaz enjoying himself for once. Snake can count on one hand the times he’s seen Kaz laugh sincerely in the last six years.

Kaz glances up when the door shuts, tipping his sunglasses down to examine him: a quick once over, and then his face softens.

“Boss.”

“Kaz.”

Snake rounds the desk and cups Kaz’s face between both hands. His gloves are dirty and still wet with various fluids, but Kaz doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes flutter shut and he leans into the touch as Snake dips down to kiss him. He means for the kiss to be brief - chaste - but time and distance have unexpectedly stoked the embers of desire. He strokes his thumbs over Kaz’s pronounced cheekbones and tilts his head so that he can pull him into a deep, open mouthed kiss. Kaz does not reciprocate.

“Is… something wrong?” Snake asks quietly. Kaz sighs and twists out of his grip, spinning his chair so that his whole body is turned away. He rubs the bridge of his nose, then gestures to the other side of the room.

“This is always so ugly… Boss, you’re gonna want to sit down.”

“What’s going on?”

“Do you trust me?”

Snake nods and follows the arc of Kaz’s hand. “Always,” he says as he pulls one of the room’s spare chairs away from the wall and sits down. When he’s seated, Kaz’s smile fades for a moment, then quirks sardonic.

“That’s what you always say, Boss. But y’know, you really, _really_ shouldn’t.”

Snake doesn’t realize how very, truly dark it is in the office until he hears footsteps that aren’t his own. From the shadows steps his own reflection - not an exact duplicate. He’s shorter by an inch or so and his face is unmarred by the signs of suffering that Venom Snake has endured. Seeing him sends a jolt down Venom’s spine: this is the man he used to be, this man he one day will become. For a moment he’s lost in a dark pit at the back of his skull - he feels the same nauseating sensation one experiences when tumbling head-first off a cliff halfway to dreaming. He hits the water metaphorically in a clash of screeching metal and flame - a memory so important and familiar that it’s etched like a lithograph into the inside of his eyelids: the moment that he gave his life to Big Boss. Nothing before or after matters - that one moment defines who he is.

His mirror leans over him, bracing a hand on either arm of the chair. He puts his face close to V’s and asks: “ _Do you know who you are?_ ”

“Of course,” V answers automatically. “I’m you. But right now, I’m your Phantom.”

Big Boss grins and pats him on the cheek affectionately, like he’s been a good dog. “Good, good. That’s what I like to hear.”

“Is it time?” V asks. He’s always known - if not consciously, he’s known it in the marrow of his bones - that one day it would be time for him to take a second fall. That is his ultimate purpose, the fate that he consented to the day that his old self threw his body in front of the Boss, to shield him from the consequences of Cipher’s assault on their home. 

Big Boss rears up to his full height and digs a cigar out of his breast-pocket. His faded fatigues are a brighter shade of green than V’s. V tries to place them, to figure out where the Boss has been this whole time based on their pattern. Funny how after all this time, neither of them are wearing a suit. It takes the Boss a few clicks to light his smoke. He sighs at the first inhale, then waves the lit end in V’s face, a little absent-mindedly. V chews his lip and takes note of the fact that Kaz has said nothing; funny, because Commander Miller has been consistently strict about banning traditional tobacco smokes from Mother Base since 1984.

“No, it’s not time,” Big Boss finally responds. He pauses to take another drag off his smoke, then adds: “Not yet, at least.”

Kaz eases himself to his feet and crosses the room, his uneven steps punctuated by the resonant clang of his cane hitting metal on each off-beat. That sound is one of the most basic, familiar comforts in V’s world. “You’ve done a good job here, Boss,” Kaz says, more kindly than he has to. Kind enough that it comes off condescending. “We’ve built something amazing. It’s no small feat to take a PMC from zero to a major force in global nuclear disarmament in less than a decade. But we need to change the way Diamond Dogs operates from now on. We’ll need to be less centralized, and you -”

“You need to be you for a while,” Big Boss finishes Kaz’s sentence for him. “Because I’m going to be Big Boss.”

“Okay,” V says simply. There isn’t anything else to say. When Big Boss is in the room, you say _‘yes sir, no sir’_. 

Kaz holds out his hand. It takes V a moment to realize what the gesture is begging for - Kaz is looking for a handshake. His expression is cold, careful - professional. Trying to gauge the tenor of his emotion beneath his shades makes V wince because suddenly he’s questioning his memories. Kaz is his best friend, his second in command, his _lover_ , they - ( _“Don’t touch me, don’t touch me. Dont -”_

_“How can you accept this so passively? What are you gonna do - just go back to sleep so you don’t have to deal with the cognitive dissonance?”_

_“Oh, I’ll play my role. That’s a promise I made to the Boss when we talked. But you need to remember yours: you’re a gun, a sword, a weapon, and it’s my hand that pulls the trigger. No matter how I act to keep up the fiction, don’t mistake it for the real thing.”_

_“Aren’t you just taking out your anger at him on me? And on yourself?” “You think that I made a mistake in coming back?” “No, I think that you’re hurting yourself by -” “I honestly don’t care what you think. I only care what he thinks.” “Don’t you understand I_

_(worry about you)_

am _him.”_ )

\- Kazuhira Miller has always been an impeccable actor. His lips form a thin smile when V reaches out to take his hand. “On behalf of all the soldiers of Mother Base, I want to thank you for your years of service. You’ve given your all for us, and then men appreciate it.”

“Of course,” V replies. “You’re welcome.”

“There’s just one last thing,” Big Boss says. “One last job I need you to do. And this one’s a doozy.”

 

[CLICK]

“--- oss. Why?”

“I ga-- --is mission to a rookie like you so that you could r----- false information but you’ve -one **too far**.”

“-- is has to be a joke. This can’t be real.”

“The world that you li-- -- -s an illusion, Solid Snake. FOXHOUND, the vows you’ve sworn to your country, the conflicts we’re forced into... but this is real. Outer Heaven is real.”

“Y-you’re nuts. I’m --- -”

“You’re going to take me down, rookie?”

“..--- -h.”

“Heh. Well. I won’t die for nothing. You’re coming with me.”

( _the gunfire comes in three short bursts. the battle persists for several more minutes._ )

“ -- mn. Damn. _Damnit_.”

[CLICK]

**1995**

_A soldier’s gun is his best friend. In the end, your gun fails you. Somewhere along the line the casing warped - in the sewer, crossing the electric floor, the battle with Metal Gear… it doesn’t matter. You peer out from your hiding spot, you aim carefully, you pull the trigger and the slide lock jams. The weapon backfires. Your gun has betrayed you. It snaps back in your hand and goes off like a blank, giving away your position._

_The room is flashing red and dark - it’s like a bloodstained strobe-light. Big Boss bears down on you in static still frames. You scramble around the corner but he grabs you by the collar of your uniform and tosses you to the floor. He’s saying something, but the klaxxon of the evacuation alarm drowns everything out. Your heart-beat pounding in your throat drowns everything out. He pins you to the floor with his forearm on your jugular and he looks right at you with his one wild eye and his blood-flecked smile. You think you might be hallucinating now from lack of oxygen, because his face looks split down the middle. He looks like he’s the devil himself - and you - you -_

_\- ten minutes later you’re looking at a caved in face and your own hands covered in gore and he’s still breathing so you… what did you do? You can’t remember, not how you escaped his grasp, not how you gained the upper hand - you moved without thinking and you, without thinking, hit him until he wasn’t moving anymore._

_But he’s_ still breathing _so you…. you take his gun and you… you put it to the center of his ruined face and you -_

David’s not listening to Campbell’s lecture, just like he didn’t listen to any of what Doctor M had to say about _patience_ and _PTSD_. He’s staring at his hands and seeing double - and not just because he’s drunk. Oh no - he’s quite good at operating at full capacity even with a half quart of vodka spinning behind his eyes. That’s not what got him caught. Not at all.

David is staring at his hands and trying to make peace with them. There’s a bright smear of blood staining the knuckles on his right hand, from where he punched Bomber Bat hard enough to fold his nose to one side. That’s what tipped them off that something was wrong; Solid Snake was the kind of man who finished a fight, not the kind who started one.

“Snake -” Campbell’s voice is stern, but he can’t mask the concern and exhaustion fraying the edges of his composure. He’s bleary-eyed and overworked from too many sleepless nights trying to re-structure FOXHOUND in the wake of their C.O.’s unexpected betrayal.

_The world you live in is an illusion. FOXHOUND is an illusion -_

“I’m listening,” David lies.

“No, you aren’t. Look - I understand that what you’ve gone through was rough. In a way, we all went through it together. But none of us so personally as you.”

David snorts. “That’s a nice sentiment, Colonel. You think a big group hug is gonna solve this?”

Campbell sighs and runs both hands through his thinning hair. “Snake… _David_. Like I said, to some extent I know what you’re going through. It’s never easy to come back to the civilian world after wading chest deep into enemy territory. I’m sympathetic, but I can’t let this go just because I feel sorry for you. This is going to go on your record. You understand that?”

“I don’t care.” David slouches in his seat and rubs at the space between his eyes. His buzz is long past pleasant at this point. His gaze flickers to the back of the room, trying to make eye contact with the one other person in the office. Master Miller hasn’t said anything yet. He’s in his dress uniform for once, having been given a number of temporary administrative duties during the adjustment period. David doesn’t know if he’s looking for support, for camaraderie, whatever… somehow the buttoned-up look changes Miller’s demeanour entirely, puts up a wall around him.

David stares point blank at Colonel Campbell and says: “Put all the black marks on my file you want. Kick me out if you want. I _don’t care_.”

“Snake…” Campbell’s at a loss for words. Miller pushes off the wall and goes to lean against the desk. He sets his hand on Campbell’s shoulder.

“I got this Roy,” David hears him whisper. He’s trying to be subtle, but David’s a trained superspy. He hears it. He hears everything. Why the hell does he always have to be the one who hears and _sees everything_?

_This isn’t real - Outer Heaven is re -_

“Hey kid,” Miller says, hitting the bottom of David’s chair with his cane. “Let’s get you some fresh air.”

The drive is a blur. David stares out the window and fails to recognize any of the familiar landmarks. The sun is all the way down by the time Miller drives his junky, modified Volvo off the road and puts the car in neutral near the base of the mountain range. They sit in very un-companionable silence for a moment, then Miller turns off the engine and says: “Come on.”

David rolls himself out the door and goes to join Miller, leaning against the trunk of the car. The tail-lights cast long, grey shadows towards the highway. David fumbles for his smokes, drops his lighter. When he gets back up, Miller snatches it from him.

“Let me get that.”

David sways forward, accepts the favour. Miller lights his cigarette with surprising ease - as if he’s done it a hundred times - even though David’s never seen him smoke. They’re silent for a while longer after that. David presses the smoke to his lips with trembling hands, doesn’t really even inhale. Just holding the damn thing, watching the smoke spiral up towards the sky… it makes him feel normal for a moment. Anchors him, reminds him that he’s home in America, back at FOXHOUND - the only home he’s ever known. A home that gave him stability for the first time in his life and then brutally cut his legs out from under him. _Big Boss gives, and Big Boss takes away..._

“That was some damn unprofessional shit, soldier.”

“I know,” David mutters. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“You’re better than this, David. You’re too smart to let everyone see it like that.”

“Yeah.”

“But Campbell’s wrong. He’s got no clue. He means well, but I don’t think that he’s ever killed a man with anything but the utmost professionalism. He’s career military. It’s his job. But it’s more than a job for you, isn’t it David?”

David doesn’t answer. There’s a strange hitch in Miller’s voice, but his face is hard and unreadable. At least he’s not trying to be kind - David doesn’t think he could stand one more person trying to be _friggin’_ kind to him after he - _with his own hands_ -

“Did Roy ever tell you how he met Big Boss?” Miller asks.

“Yeah,” David answers blearily, staring at his hands again. “He tells everyone the same story. Big Boss saved his life in San Hieronymo. I suppose you’re going to tell me he saved your life too?”

“No,” Miller’s looking at the sky, his eyes distant beneath the sunglasses. “When we met, he was going to kill me.”

“Kill you?”

“He defeated my unit in combat. Beat me brutally, to be honest. He was going to execute me, but I talked him out of it. Showed him how I could be useful. And here I am, twenty years later, still trying to be useful to him. Funny, right?”

“No,” David answers honestly. 

“Yeah, sorry. It’s a bad joke.”

“When I fought him, he looked more like a demon than a man.”

“But you survived, David. That’s what’s important. You surpassed him.”

_His one wild eye, his blood-flecked smile. In the darkness of that cargo bay, it looked like he had a devil’s horn. When you catch your bloody reflection in a pane of glass later, for a moment you think that it’s him -_

“I feel like…” David tries to articulate, but he’s shaking. He sucks back on his cigarette, desperate for the tobacco to soothe his nerves, but it’s too much. The cold night air, the alcohol swimming in his veins, the blood on his hands… “I feel like… a part of him is in me now. As if... that was my reward for killing him.”

“It was,” Miller replies, as if it’s that simple. “The ones that do well in FOXHOUND rarely come through the normal military ranks like you did, David. Usually, they’re like me, or like Roy. Big Boss is either their captor or their saviour. That piece of him you carry inside you… you can turn it into a weapon.”

David drops his smoke and watches what’s left burn down to the filter. “At least with him dead… I suppose in a way that means we’re free.” _We can move on_.

Miller laughs. “ _Free_? David you’re -” he shakes his head and meets David’s curious gaze. “You’re young. That’s not the kind of thing anyone can ever truly be free from. Everyone’s treating you with a soft hand right now, but I’m not gonna lie to you: it haunts you. It sleeps in your bed every night and wakes up with you in the morning. It follows you like a shadow - no amount of light can get rid of it.”

“So you…”

“The man ultimately responsible for my arm and leg… I killed him eleven years ago. I still think about him every day. Sometimes I regret what I did to him. Sometimes I - I wish that I could be there again. In a way I’m always there, standing over his broken body, holding the barrel of his own gun, as we shoot him again and again and _aga_ -” Miller inhales abruptly, stops himself. His voice has gone deep and ragged - like something rotting and torn uneven at the edges. He looks away and brushes a stray strand of hair behind his ear, trying to regain his composure. David realizes now that he’s never seen a smile from Master Miller that wasn’t performative and his gut turns over in a wrench that’s half resignation, half empathy.

When Miller’s hand falls away from his cheek, David replaces it with his own. He guides Miller’s face towards him and kisses him. It seems right - the hazy clouds dimming the moon, the pale beams of the car’s lights cutting through the darkness, the wind rattling down from the empty highway… it’s that kind of night. Miller doesn’t return the kiss, but he doesn’t pull away either. David eases back and searches his teacher’s face for approval or rejection. Miller’s face is oddly impassive. 

“Jesus, kid,” he sounds exhausted. “You’re really sloshed.”

“Master, I-”

Miller grabs his arm and tugs it, guiding him back around the car. “I gotta get you home. You need to sleep this off. You’ll feel better in the morning, once that hangover starts driving into your skull like a sledgehammer. Nothing like pain to bring clarity.” He’s speaking with clipped, forced flippancy now. David can’t believe that it’s taken him so long to figure this out, to see the dark well of sorrow beneath Miller’s meticulous veneer, how hollow his good cheer is.

With the liquor clouding his judgement and turning his emotions bright and raw-edged, all this realization does is make David want to kiss him again. Which he does when Miller tries to help him into the backseat of the car. He wraps both arms around Miller’s neck and drags him down. He hits his head on the hard, plastic arm of the opposite door and accidentally makes the kiss all teeth. They end up half in the car, half out, Miller forced to straddled David’s hips for balance.

“ _David_ ,” he scolds when they part. Whatever lecture he’s about to launch into gets swallowed by David’s third attempt at making this work. This time it’s a little like picking a lock - careful technique and perseverance slowly unhinge the stubborn vise of Miller’s teeth. When Miller does kiss him back, he does it like this was all his idea in the first place. He rolls their mouths together with shocking expertise, bruising David’s lips with sharp, deliberate bites. 

David immediately cedes the kiss to his superior. Letting Miller take the lead makes it easier for him not to think too hard about it: that he’d been caught drunk on base, that he’d flattened a comrade’s nose, that he’d practically sexually harassed his teacher and now they were making out in the back of a car like damn teenagers. Using his hands to thread through someone’s hair makes it easy for him to forget that he’d recently beaten his Commanding Officer to death with them. There are gentle uses for hands as well. He ghosts his fingers along Miller’s ribcage, down the plane of his stomach, and tugs his shirt free from his waist-band. Miller’s got his tongue halfway down his throat, but when David slides a hand up under the shirt, he goes tense and jolts back.

“Kid,” he hisses, wrestling into a sitting position. “This is _really fucking unprofessional_.”

“That’s fine. I’m tendering my resignation anyway.”

“Shit - you’re not funny,” Miller says with a misplaced sort of familiarity that makes David feel immediately self-conscious. There’s something about Miller’s tone that's been unraveling all night, like the layers have been peeled back to expose the flesh; the false gaiety, the kindly teacher, the stern mentor - it’s all gone. David slides out from beneath him so that his back is against the window. The glass is ice even with two layers of fabric between it and his feverish skin. 

Miller leans back in the seat and pulls the other door shut, locks them in together. He pauses to tighten his ponytail before fixing David with an expression that would be unreadable even if he weren’t wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night. “Don’t move,” he says, and then he reaches down and begins undoing the buckle of David’s belt.

David chokes back an embarrassing sound - shock and desire all tangled together - and grabs Miller’s shoulders. He’s not sure if he’s trying to shove him away or pull him closer. Miller’s head snaps up and he actually _growls_.

“I said: _don’t. Move_.” And he says it with the same hard, authoritative edge he uses when telling cadets to drop and give him fifty. David goes still on instinct, all that trained obedience that can’t be turned off in civilian life coming to the surface. Miller yanks down the zipper on his fly and slips his hand into his pants. “Don’t move and don’t say anything,” he repeats. “If you do, I’ll stop and we never talk about this again. Is that clear?”

David nods, and then he closes his eyes because he realizes what’s happening is not particularly psychologically healthy and he’s afraid of the things he’ll find out about his teacher if he watches the exact emotions that cycle through his face as he dispassionately jerks someone off. He stays still and he bites the side of his mouth to stop himself from making noise. He’s ashamed that he manages to stay aroused through the whole ordeal and he’s ashamed at how quickly he comes, but Master Miller _really_ knows what he’s doing, and he goes about it with a sort of practiced workmanship. When he’s finished, he wipes his hand on David’s pant leg, a final reprimand.

David falls back against the window, panting. He can see out the window from the top of his vision. The stars are spinning above him. He flattens his palms against his flushed cheeks and tries to catch his breath, to center himself the same way he does after a good fight.

_This isn’t real. The world you live in is an illusion. This isn -_

David cleans himself up, gathers his composure. Sits up. “So,” he shoots Miller a wry, side-long glance. “Did I pass?”

Miller sighs and rests his head against the back of seat. “You have a lot of nerve taking a smart ass tone with me after all that.”

“... sorry, natural instinct.”

The silence that settles inside the car is suffocating. The military discipline in David can’t stand that he’s getting let off the hook so easily for such rank insubordination. He looks at Miller and asks: “... are you going to read me the riot act about my drinking finally?”

Miller groans - exasperation or regret, it’s difficult to tell. He takes off his shades and pinches the bridge of his nose. “No. No… I’m not gonna say anything, David.”

“Isn’t that why you brought me out here?”

“Booze, sex, drugs - everyone who’s gone through the kind of thing you went through has their vices. Sometimes it really is the only way to escape. It’s fine if you can’t look at yourself in the mirror in the morning, as long as you get out of bed and keep surviving.” Miller slides his glasses back on before giving David a reassuring look. “That’s the one principle I’ve tried to instill in you kids - survival isn’t pretty, survival doesn’t _feel_ good. Survival is the bare minimum of living. So… do what you have to do. Just don’t let anyone else see you doing it.”

David watches the way the moonlight pools beneath the sharp edges of of his profile. He thinks that he’s probably drained the well with regards to his privilege to ask the Master invasive questions, but the one he really wants to know slips out anyway. “What… was your vice?”

Miller raises his arm and lets it fall with a slow, purposeful thud. He claps the stump above his fake leg a few times for emphasis. “Pain,” he says with a crooked grin. “That’s why I don’t wear nicer prosthetics. So I can carry it with me all the time.”

_It never goes away. It stays with you… the world you live in is an illusion -_

David is suddenly struck by the heavy weight of his future. It hits him all at once with the same density as a fist in the gut. _I killed him eleven years ago… but I still think about it every day._

_It sleeps in your bed every night… it haunts you… the world you live in is an illusion. Outer Heaven is real -_

“- avid. David! _David_ -” Miller’s shaking him, eyes pulled wide with concern.

“I can’t do this,” David gasps. He whirls around and tries to bust his way out of the car, but the door is locked. He panics, throws his arm back and hears the sound of bone cracking against bone.

“ _Fuck_ -”

\- and that snaps him out of it. He twists his head back around to see Miller nursing a wound to his forehead.

“Master - I -”

David reaches out, but Miller jerks away. “It’s okay - it’s fine. David, I’m fine.” He looks up - shades slightly askew and a dark bruise forming around his eyebrow. “But you aren’t. _You_ need to pull yourself together.”

“I know.”

Miller struggles out of the car - his eye is probably more hurt than he’s letting on. David sits alone with himself until he can’t stand it anymore. He sits alone with himself until he needs a smoke so bad that it’s shaking his bones. When he steps outside, Miller says nothing, he just lets David recline against the car with him wordlessly. David smokes one cigarette. Then he immediately lights up another one. 

“If you’re really planning on leaving FOXHOUND,” Miller says haltingly. “I -”

David stares at him.

“- I know a place. An organization, I mean. Where you could put your talents to use.”

“No offense, Master, but I think I’m gonna take some time off. I need to... “ David takes a drag off his cigarette and breathes the smoke out in a thin ribbon. “... I need to be alone for a while.”

“Well, if you ever change your mind. Give them a call.” Miller forces a business card into David’s hand. “It’s… the same card I gave Jaeger, after all was said and done.”

“Frank? You… gave this card to Frank?”

“Yup.”

David smooths out the edges and holds it up to the light so that he can read the text - two words in bold, militaristic font: _Diamond Dogs_.

 

( _door opens. dog starts barking immediately. five seconds later, the phone begins to ring._ )

“Oh, come on, I just got in the door - yeah, _yeah_ DD, calm down. We’ll go for a walk after just let me -”

( _Miller picks up the phone. Only his side of the conversation is audible._ )

“Impeccable timing. You got my apartment bugged or something?”

“----”

“Oh no, of course not. How could I ever suspect you of such a thing? Besides, I’ve already checked for bugs this week.”

“----”

“Yeah. It went off without a hitch. I did what I needed to do, you don’t need to check up on me like a goddamn babysitter.”

“----”

“You still feel that way after all these years? That hurts. I thought that at the very least we’d come to a place of mutual respect and tolerance.”

“----”

“Don’t worry. I have an exit plan.”

“----”

“I don’t really see why you need to hear it.”

“----”

“Fine - I go out the same way I came in. Staggered about eight months after the Boss. Campbell’s asked me to take over his old position, but I refused. Started seeding my cover story too. My health, you know; it’s just not what it used to be. I’ll stay in America a few months after my resignation before going to help out you know who in you know where. And then you -”

“----”

“Heh - it’s almost like we’re trading places. Funny how life works out that way. Such a shame that your work always keeps you on the opposite side of the world.”

“----”

“Oh, you know. Just getting nostalgic for old times.”

“----”

“Yes, DD’s fine. You ask that every time like I have no idea how to take care of a dog. It’s not rocket science. I walk him regularly. Take him to the park and everything. He’s happy. What? You want me to hand him the phone?”

“----”

“Mmm hmm. I know. There’s a lot of things you would have preferred to take care of yourself, but we don’t always get what we want.”

“----”

“You don’t have to tell me twice. I know what I’m doing. What my role is.”

“----”

“Right. Bye.”

( _Miller slams down the phone, sighs._ )

“Your _mother_ is a real asshole, DD. A miracle you turned out so well. Wish he’d self-hypnosis himself into forgetting my phone number.”

( _Miller paces. Glasses rattling, fluid being poured._ )

( _several minutes of silence._ )

“... aha... ahahaha... come _on_ , Kazuhira. Why all this self pity. You’ve done worse.”

( _A loud impact rattles the walls of the apartment. [Miller punched the wall?] The glass breaks and he hisses in pain. Dog starts barking._ )

“Shit, _shit_ \- DD, DD I’m fine. I’m just...”

( _laughter_ )

( _the dog is quiet but his footsteps pad after Miller as he crosses the apartment. A tap is turned on. it runs for a few minutes._ )

“You’re a really dumb dog, you know that? All this time we’ve had you doing things a dog should never have to do. But it doesn’t bother you, does it? Because you trust us so much. Because you don’t know any better.”

( _tap is turned off._ )

“Although... if we’d left you out in the wild and you’d survived, you would have spent your entire life killing animals instead of people. That’s just how you’re made. From that perspective, I guess you’ve had a pretty good life.”

( _footsteps approach the living room again. Miller settles into a chair. Dog follows and lays down. A sigh, and then Miller begins dialing a phone number. 12 digits. It rings for a hundred and twenty six seconds before someone picks up._ )

“... listen, don’t ask how I got this number. I’ve got some very important information for Donald Anderson.”

“----”

“No, I can’t tell you who I am. And I don’t care if you hang up, but first let me give you a message: tell Donald that someone wants to talk to him about what a _loyal patriot_ he is.”

[CLICK]


	4. [1986] FLASHBACK: RECONCILIATION II

**1986**

“You couldn’t have sprung for something a little nicer?”

“Victoria’s a small city, there’s only a handful of hotels. Besides - aren’t you the one who knows where all the money is?”

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to embezzle two hundred whole dollars for a guy who didn’t care enough to come see the men and women who earned it for him.” Kaz takes a half-hearted stab at his curry. He has no idea why he let Big Boss order for him, of _course_ he’d use it as an opportunity to make fun of him. Kaz was _infamously_ picky about his curry. The dish isn’t bad, but all it does is remind him of what an effort cooking is these days. All his old hobbies are either arduous or impossible.

Snake, naturally, is enjoying himself. His eyes had lit up when _Civet de Chauve Souris_ turned out to be exactly what it said on the tin. He’s munching contentedly on one of the spiced bat wings now, surveying the hotel dining room with the eye of a battle tactician. He looks a little ridiculous in polite company with the eyepatch and the black turtle-neck, rolled up to the elbows. Not as ridiculous as he did in the 70s, though; his edges are smoothed down these days, his beard neatly trimmed. He looks almost tamed. He looks like a stranger.

“These people are awfully calm considering the city just survived an attempted coup,” Snake says in Spanish.

‘Calm’ isn’t how Kaz would describe the atmosphere. Desperate, maybe. Determined to be jovial. The banquet room is full of chatty diners dressed in neon and floral prints, all of them drunk on sambuca and palm wine. He and Snake stick out like a sore thumb in their monochrome tones. A few years ago, Kaz would have been embarrassed at how out of touch he looks in his unfashionable, beige suit. He bought it in Johannesburg in ‘78 so that he could look trendy and professional when meeting with potential employers. In 1986 it’s the only thing he owns that isn’t a uniform, or military fatigues.

“Coups are the way of the world here,” Kaz replies, surprised at how natural Spanish still feels on his tongue. “Seychelles has been relatively untouched the last few years, but this close to South Africa, the people probably spend their whole lives waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“It’s good that it did, then. A little conflict is good for the soul.”

“That’s true for us, Snake. But it’s not true for everyone.”

“All people are ultimately driven by the same base instincts, Kaz. You and me… we’re just more honest about it. That edge of danger has made these people appreciate what they have - look around, most of them aren’t tourists. They’re living in the moment for once.”

“Do you actually believe that?”

Snake takes a long swig of his wine. “The better question is: do you think that you’re so different, Kaz? Do _you_ believe that you’re so far removed from everyone else in this room that your inherent nature separates you from them?”

Kaz doesn’t answer. How can he? It’s one of those questions where every answer leads down a rabbit hole he doesn’t want to explore. Instead, he sticks his fork into his untouched curry and says: “Did you really bring me here just to debate clumsy philosophy? We have unfinished business.”

“So impatient,” Snake frowns. “Relax. I want you to enjoy yourself first.” He says it with that sincere, guileless kind of charm that occasionally possesses him when it comes to interpersonal shit, which means that even though he’s been an asshole since the moment they met in the foyer, he really does mean it.

“What are you doing?”

Snake hunches his shoulders and glances away. Oh no, _no_. After the shit he’s done, he does not get to be _embarrassed_ and _charming_. He doesn’t get to act like he used to.

But he does. “Er… you remember, about a month after… everything with Zadornov and Paz.” He scratches at one of his sideburns and his gaze flickers back to meet Kaz’s. “And you took me out to the beach? Said we worked too hard, so we deserved a break.”

Yeah, Kaz _does_ remember. His and Snake’s relationship had taken on a… _bizarrely_ romantic tone in the months between the Peace Walker Incident and… and the end. But mostly because Snake had forbidden him from dallying with women in his spare time (but oh, that had nothing to do with _them_ or what _they_ did), so what else was Kaz supposed to do with all that charm and expertise? He was really, _really_ good at wining and dining - it was a shame to let it all go to waste! At the time it had felt a bit like a cold war, or a game of chicken - candle-lit dinners, stargazing, the whole nine yards; Kaz was trying to see how far he could take it before Snake caved in and let him have sex with women again.

“You were trying to make up for a big lie,” Snake continues. “Thought I’d return the favour.”

Kaz is honestly bewildered. “This… is… a _date_?”

“Yeah.”

Kaz laughs and slams his hand down on the table, rattling the glasses and all the utensils. “How is it that you can… just say this shit that cuts me right down but then it’s like… you don’t even know me at all.”

“Kaz. I know you.”

The way Snake says it, and the look that he pins Kaz with… Kaz tries to swallow, but his mouth is suddenly dry. Despite everything - all the crossed wires and the lies and the years and years between them, it’s true. Snake may misjudge him from time to time, but when it comes down to who he is, who he _really, truly_ is at his core - the most basic, primal things that make him _Kazuhira Miller_ … Snake _knows_ him. But that’s only because the man he is today is the man that Big Boss made him. It’s cheating, to claim any credit for being able to see through that.

Snake pushes back his chair and stands up. He leaves a roll of crisp bills in the center of the table and then, cheekily, offers Kaz his hand. “Come on. Let’s go resolve our unfinished business.”

And if that wasn’t just the most _portentous_ euphemism for _‘let’s go fuck’_... because yeah, they had things to talk about, but it wasn’t like they _weren’t_ going to end up in bed. Kaz has felt it in the air between them since the moment he spotted the _Diamond Dogs_ patch on the shoulder of Snake’s jacket and he had to dig his nails into his palm to stop himself from jumping the bastard right then and there to beat the shit out of him ( _“That doesn’t belong to you. That’s not yours.”_ ). Snake has been infuriatingly calm all night and Kaz has been desperately trying to pick a fight. With them, one thing has always lead to another.

Snake is so _good_ and _patient_ with how long it takes Kaz to make it up the stairs. He doesn’t suggest that they take the elevator instead. He doesn’t even move to catch him when Kaz struggles a bit on the last step.

“If you try to help me down the hall,” Kaz whispers pleasantly, “I’ll break your wrist.”

Snake grins - sees it for the issued challenge it is - and snatches Kaz’s cane from him. Kaz stumbles, shocked, right into Big Boss’s helping hands. In the manner of a gentleman helping his grandmother across the road, he walks Kaz to his hotel room. Under his breath, he says: “ _Kaz_ , I’d really love for you to try.”

The moment the door slams shut, Kaz does just that. His CQC is rusty and the move doesn’t have any real intent or planning behind it, so Snake’s able to throw him off without even breaking a sweat. But breaking Snake’s wrist wasn’t what Kaz really wanted - what he wanted was to be thrown against the wall so hard that his vision falters. The impact feels better than any drink, any lay he’s had in ten years; it reverberates from his shoulders to his hip, strumming every single rib like they’re strings on a guitar. He can’t help it, he actually moans.

“Good to see that you’re just as shameless as I remember,” Snake grins and grabs Kaz by the waist. He wraps both arms around him and swings them around, pulling Kaz so close there’s almost no room to breathe. The back of Kaz’s knees stutter against the bed, but Big Boss doesn’t push him down, just holds him. 

Kaz shuts his eyes and whispers: “Hurt me.”

“Hmm?”

He doesn’t know why he said it, just that he wants it. “You heard me. _Hurt_ me.”

“What’s gotten into you all of a sudden, Kaz?”

Kaz’s arm is crushed between his chest and Snake’s. He manages to slither it free to tug at the loose edges of Snake’s too-neat hair-cut. “I was ten years without you. I want to really feel it. I want you to leave marks I won’t soon forget, ones that I can’t mistake for some dream or phantom.” It sounds pretentious out loud but whatever. There’s no one in this room to judge him except the one person who’s opinion really matters.

Big Boss’ chuckle thrums warm against Kaz’s jawline. “Would it really be wise to send you home in that condition?” He tugs at the neck of Kaz’s dress shirt, exposing the top of a fading mark left by the _other_ one, by Venom Snake. “You’ve got someone waiting for you, after all.”

“The thing about him,” Kaz whispers it like a secret. “- is that he goes on a lot about things that aren't there. Sometimes he thinks people who died years ago are still alive, forgets things that happened the day before. So, I’m pretty sure that I could tell him just about anything in the right tone of voice and eventually make him believe it actually happened.”

Big Boss stops laughing. “ _Kaz_ ,” he says, tone halfway between disappointment and a reprimand.

“Don’t you ‘Kaaaaz’ me. Isn’t that how Zero made him? I’m just taking advantage of a pre-programmed failsafe.”

Big Boss pulls back to look him over, his mouth turned down. “Were you always this…?”

“ _Mean_?” Kaz finishes with a hiss. “Petty? _Cruel_? No. _You_ did that.”

“I don’t think so,” Snake says. He brushes Kaz’s hair aside and then clips his thumb and forefinger around the bridge of his sunglasses. He slides them off, folds them up and slips them into Kaz’s jacket pocket. When that’s all done, he steps back and holds out his arms. “But since blaming me makes you feel so good, why don’t you take a swing at me?”

“What?”

“I’ll hurt you, Kaz, if that’s what you want. But you’ve got to hit back. Otherwise what’s the point? C’mon - I’ll give you one for free.”

Kaz sucks air through his teeth, his hand curling into a fist automatically without him even thinking about it. On one hand, Big Boss is condescending to him, like he always does, that complete piece of shi-

On the other hand, it’s gonna feel _so good_ trying to break his nose in one swing. Kaz’s skin is tingling in anticipation, eager for bruises, for scrapes and finger-marks. He’s so sick of the Phantom’s tender shit, all feathery touches and fumbling callouses drumming gentle along his cheekbones, his ribs. It was nice at first - to be handled like he was cracked glass - but after a year and a half it’s become suffocating, makes it too easy to slide back into self-pity. The thing they don’t tell you about chronic pain is that it’s _fucking boring_. Everyone is so ginger with you and you forget what it feels like to be alive with adrenaline. The thrill of a good fight he can’t win? Kaz can feel it humming in his _teeth_.

So he takes a fucking swing. Big Boss does nothing to stop it. Kaz puts all his weight and strength into it, doesn’t even care if he loses balance and topples them both over - which, of course, he does. It hits with disappointing force - there was no real thrust behind it, nothing solid - but it _does_ pin Snake between Kaz’s thighs, giving him a _much_ better position to swing from a second time. This punch rakes across both Snake’s cheeks and grounds his face into the cheap, scratchy carpet of the hotel room. The third punch comes with a wet satisfying _crunch_ , but Kaz keeps going. A fourth time. A fifth time. The sixth blow loses steam. Kaz’s arm is shaky and aching, he’s already breathless from the exertion. He raises his fist and tries to breathe past the pain. Snake’s nose is broken - not _phenomenally_ broken, but noticeably. His lip is split. He’s gonna have a black eye in about ten minutes. Kaz is seeing red by the time he lands the seventh punch. 

His body is moving automatically now, running on autopilot in response to pleasurable stimuli. How could he have spent the last year and a half docilely doing paperwork when hands were made for fighting? The most basic, primal, _obvious_ use for a hand was to _pound the shit out of another human being_ with it - that’s the sort of thingyou learn when you run with Big Boss. It was freeing, seeing the fruits of his effort, the effects of his own strength. It was like running after being bedridden. _Shit_ , he hasn’t run in twenty-one months, and the last time he ran, _it was for his li_ \- 

\- the human body is an amazing machine and it is capable of amazing things, like hitting another human body so hard that the bones snap and grind into the flesh, so hard that you can do damage to a skull that eats away at its original shape, like what it takes the ocean ten thousand years to do to the shore. That’s what Kaz is imagining himself doing, what his arm wants to do after so long caged by pain and self-loathing. His arm wants to hit Big Boss so hard and so many times that his fucking _skull caves in_ , so that his face is just a ruin of soggy flesh and chipped bone. That’s not really what Kaz wants, ultimately, but it’s in the force of how hard his eighth punch hits. For a second, Kaz thinks that Big Boss is going to let him get in an even ten, but as he lets the ninth blow drop, Snake’s hand snaps up and catches his fist.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he says, a bit nasal though his broken nose. He folds Kaz’s arm back with surprising ease for a man who’d just been beaten so semi-thoroughly and Kaz has to roll with the motion of the twist to avoid getting his arm dislocated. He hits the floor hard on his right side and pain shoots through him all the way from his shoulder-stump to the bottom bone of his ribs. He falls, cursing, onto his stomach and Snake’s arm comes up around his neck to catch him in a CQC hold. Kaz manages to get his chin into the space beneath Snake’s elbow and he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh there so hard that it draws blood.

“Good, _good_ ,” Big Boss says affectionately, his voice hardly affected by the pain. Of course not - this is the kind of thing he lives for. He’s _honestly_ proud.

“Don’t. Patronize. Me,” Kaz gasps, the taste of metal and meat sharp on his tongue.

Snake draws away long enough for Kaz to roll onto his back. He tries to kick at Snake’s kneecap, but Snake shifts deftly to the side. He reaches out and grabs Kaz by the neck, and then he lifts him. He lets most of the pressure rest on either end of Kaz’s jaw so that his air passages aren’t prohibitively restricted. When they’re both on their feet, Snake asks: “How badly do you want this to go?”

The grip on Kaz’s throat is relatively gentle, but it’s still difficult to talk around it. “Go for broke, Snake,” he pants. Big Boss chides him.

“That wouldn’t really be fair. C’mon Kaz - you could hardly beat me when you had _two_ arms.”

Kaz knees him in the gut. Snake drops him and he lands hard on his fake leg. The cup of the prosthetic digs sharp into the flesh of his thigh and he would have been crumpled on the floor again if Big Boss didn’t catch him by the shoulders to steady him.

“I told you not to-” he begins but he’s cut off by Big Boss’ palm. Snake grabs Kaz’s face in one of his big, calloused hands and throws him back against the dresser, with enough force to knock the breath out of him. He doubles over, into Big Boss’ arms.

“You really need to pull yourself together. I’m not going to do this for you every time you feel inadequate.”

“H-heh. This is like shooting fish in a barrell for you, isn’t it?” Kaz’s breath comes out thin and ragged. “Th-there’s really no… way for me… to keep up. T-to make you take me _seriously_ -”

Snake grabs his face again and smashes his head into the mirror this time. The whole thing shatters, mostly because it's cheap as shit. Still, it _hurts_.

“Watch out,” Kaz says, his vision sparking and spinning at the edges. “You’re gonna… give me brain damage if you’re not c-careful.” His speech is slurred from how hard he'd bit down on his tongue upon impact. There's so much blood in his mouth, both his and the Boss's.

“Yeah, that’d be a shame. To be honest, I don’t care about the arm and leg, Kaz, not as much as you think I do. Your mind is the only part of you I really need intact.”

Kaz laughs at that. He closes his eyes and asks: “am I bleeding?”

Snake checks, pressing down on the tender spot at the back of his head. It doesn’t hurt really, not much more than anything else has hurt. Kaz worries that his pain tolerance must be unreliable at this point after dealing with so many months of pain as a constant. He could be bleeding out for all he knew and his body wasn’t going to recognize it.

Snake drags his fingers down the side of his face and Kaz can feel that they’re slick with blood. “Oh. Good,” he whispers, then rocks forwards to crack his skull against Snake’s. Snake falters on his feet - loses his balance for a half-second - and that’s all Kaz needs to knock him down again. They hit the floor near where Snake dropped Kaz’s cane. Kaz gropes for it and braces it across Snake’s throat, slamming the other half of it to the floor with his knee. Snake croaks - an involuntary sound, caused by the cane crushing the air out of his trachea. 

“How does it feel?” Kaz snarls, pushing down hard on the metal. “Feeling trapped? Smothered? Knowing that someone else holds your life and death in their hands? And that it’s entirely possible that they don’t _give a fuck_? This is how you make me feel. _Do you like it_?”

Snake sets his palms against either end of the cane and pushes, just a little. Enough that he can hiss out words. With that limited air, the words he chooses are: “K-Kaz… has anyone told you… that you really… can’t pull off a beard…”

Kaz lets go of the cane so that he can punch him again. He actually misses and gets Snake in the ear instead. With his high ground sacrificed, it’s easy for Snake to roll them over and pin Kaz down. He gets both his hands up under Kaz’s shirt and he _squeezes_ , kneading at the sad remains of his fading six pack.

“And what’s this? You’re getting _soft_.”

“How _dare yo_ -”

Big Boss cuts him off with a kiss. When he tries a second time, Kaz turns his mouth away. “ _Don’t_ ,” he says. Snake grabs his jaw, clamps it tight in his hand and forces their lips together. Kaz fights it, bites into it, does everything he can to resist it until he can’t, until his lips are forced pliant. Big Boss kisses him slow and open mouthed, easing the grip on Kaz’s jaw slowly, tipping his chin so that their noses can slot against each other, so that his tongue can drive deeper. Kaz claws at Snake’s shoulder, at his hair, desperate for purchase as all the oxygen is sucked out of him. He can’t remember the last time he was legitimately kissed breathless, kissed until his lips were raw and he didn’t care how ugly he was acting, drooling and making tiny, desperate noises.

He always used to wonder what the hell Big Boss even got out this, how much of the physicality of it was passion and how much was tactical. He knows that Snake doesn’t need sex, can do perfectly well without it. He’s not like Kaz, who gets twitchy and depressed when he’s gone too long with only his hand for company, who couldn’t stick to one partner even when that partner was the hinge on which his entire world revolved… Snake always acted so pure and wise and above it all. _But as soon as there’s a little blood in the water_ , Kaz thinks as Snake grabs his hips, _he’s as animal as the rest of us_.

Snake breaks off the kiss, barely winded. He yanks Kaz off the floor and for a moment, Kaz thinks he’s about to get flipped over. He lets out a long, shuddering breath, almost trembling in anticipation. Instead, Snake drags him to his feet and pushes him - _gently_ \- onto the bed. He makes sure that Kaz is positioned comfortably on the mattress before straddling him and going to work on his shirt buttons. 

Kaz panics, suddenly feeling more trapped than he did with Snake’s hand around his throat. “N-not like this,” he rasps.

Big Boss raises an eyebrow. “Then like what, Kaz?”

“I… against the wall, on the floor. Ground my face into the carpet. I don’t care, just not like _this_.” 

“Do you need to do this because you want to prove to me that you can still fight?”

They stare at each other in the half-light. Big Boss is almost more handsome with the hollow of his eye puffing up into a black bruise and his nose caked with drying blood. No scars, no horn; when his shirt comes off, all the bullet scars will be in the right places. Kaz isn’t ready to see how accurate his memory really is, to face the real weight and brunt of his obsession with this asshole who ruined his life, after giving it purpose. “Not everything I do is about you,” Kaz whispers. It tastes more like a lie said aloud. “This is something _I_ need. I’m… I’m asking you because I want it.”

Big Boss leans over him and slides the warm base of his palm along his cheek. He strokes the soft skin beneath Kaz’s eye with his thumb. “It’s dangerous to use pain as escapism, Kaz. It dulls your natural instincts and can be just as addictive as alcohol or heroin.”

“You’re not listening to me.”

“I’m listening, Kaz. But you have a bad habit of saying one thing while meaning another. You’re not honest by nature, not even with yourself.”

Kaz closes his eyes against the sight of Snake’s affectionate smile. “Snake… please…” _Don’t make me look at you_.

“Don’t worry. Like you said - it hasn’t been that long for me. I remember what you like.”

And wasn’t that just typical - Big Boss knows what’s best! _Kaz, your wrist trembles holding a .45, puts your aim off by whole centimetres. You’ll want to turn your arms slightly to absorb the recoil. You favour your dominant hand when you fight. Learn to grapple right handed. Only ten percent of the population is left handed - use that to your advantage._ Kaz, _you can’t talk to uneducated soldiers the same way you talk to businessmen and politicians - you’re smart, you’re strong, you’re talented, but you still have a lot to learn. I’ll trust you with just about everything: my men, my money, my body - even my life - but I won’t trust you with_ yourself.

Kaz gives into it when Snake kisses the dip in his throat, but not when Snake kisses him again on the lips. He fights what he needs to fight, to maintain his pride. It’s good to know how to choose your battles wisely - another lesson he learned from Big Boss.

Afterwards, Snake sits on the edge of the bed and lights up a cigar. Kaz stares at the ceiling - still damp and panting - and tries to gather his thoughts. He rolls himself into a sitting position and leans his face against the hard muscles that line Snake’s upper spine. It’s a difficult journey with one arm and all the bruises from their earlier fight starting to turn blue and tender, but Snake shifts his shoulders and silently accommodates his presence. They stay like that for a few minutes: Snake filling the room with smoke and Kaz listening to the sound of his heartbeat through his ribcage.

“I adore you. You know that?”

“Mmm?”

“Adoration is a latin loanword. We’ve softened it with mundane associations, but in its original context, it means admiration and reverence. In Rome, a devotee to an adored figure could not even _look_ at the object of their affection. They would cover their heads and kiss the feet of divine statues, or otherwise put a kiss to their hand and turn it so that their love would be given indirectly. If you adore something, you pay homage to it. When you think about it that way, it’s pretty messed up that we toss it around so casually.”

“No, it makes perfect sense to me. It’s only human to see the proverbial face of God in those we love.”

“It’s not love, Snake. It’s worship.”

Snake takes a long, thoughtful drag of his cigar. On the exhale, he snickers. “Ah - you always say things like this after sex, Kaz. And you’re always mortified in the morning. You always ask me to pretend it never happened.”

“I’m not the same person I was in the 70’s. _Listen_ to me. I’m going somewhere with this.”

“Go on then.”

“It was so easy to hate you. Like flipping a switch on and off. It’s two sides of the same coin: I hated you when I first met you, I think, and it’d be easy to hate you again. You don’t realize the effect you have on people. You’re careless with them.”

“So what, you’re gonna kiss my feet?”

“Hell no. But… we need to talk about this.”

“You... want to _talk_... about our _relationship_?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Hmm. I seem to remember trying to lay down some ground rules back in the day. More than once. You always brushed me off - _‘oh, Boss, you wanna take me to senior prom? This isn’t serious. We’re just having a little fun’_.”

“Even back then, you knew that wasn’t true. I’m grateful you humoured me, but look at the mess that denial’s made of me. Just three years at your side, and nine years thinking of almost nothing else.”

“ _Pining_ , Kaz? You’re above that.”

Kaz chuckles humorlessly and shifts his position so that he and Snake are sitting back to back. He stares out the window at the city lights and the moon reflected on the still ocean. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “Not all of it was pining. A lot of the time I was furious with you. Zero, Cipher… they took everything. Our men, our home - they took you from my side when I was unconscious, wouldn’t even trust me with your location. I missed you, sure, but six drinks in I’d start to follow the problem back to its root cause. I’d start to think: _you know, I wouldn’t feel this awful if I’d never met him_. I’d start to think: _why am I here, seat-warming for a man who practically kidnapped me and press ganged me into serving in his private cult of personality_.”

“Is that what you really think of me? Is that what you think of what we built?”

“No - I’m being ridiculous. When I met you it was just a few guys in leaky tents messing around in the woods. It wasn’t until I got there and started working my magic that it became a real cult, right?”

“ _Kaz_.”

“Seriously, Snake. I always viewed your charisma as a valuable business asset. I didn’t realize how much I’d fallen for it until you were gone and I was alone with myself, with nowhere left to look but _in_. I couldn’t… hold it together on my own.”

“You managed. They followed you. Never forget, Kaz: you were their Commander.”

“Sure, okay. Everyone listened to me, but only because they knew me as the man you trusted with the reins. The work didn’t matter, the money didn’t matter - the only thing that mattered was that we’d all been there, we all remembered Big Boss. So I thought,” Kaz stammers, falls over his words. He can feel the bitterness welling up at the bottom of his stomach again. It gets into his throat and makes his voice go guttural and cracked. “I _thought_ \- what am I without you? Nothing. I’m _nothing at all_ if I’m not your partner, and that’s what got me through nine years of hell and weeks of torture. If I could just see you again, it’d all make sense. But when you woke up, you didn’t even think about me. _Out of sight, out of mind’_. And you want me to accept the table scraps you’re offering now just because I kicked up a fuss?”

Snake is quiet. He’s quiet for a long while. Kaz doesn’t know if he’s pushed too far, or if Snake’s honestly thinking through everything he’s said.

Finally, he says: “I don’t go through this kind of effort for just anyone, Kaz.” He says it like it should be obvious. It’s not.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“What do you think?”

“I feel like… you’ve always wanted to fold me up and put me in your pocket. But I’m not made out of a material that can be folded, so you have no idea what the hell to do with me half the time.”

“Maybe.”

Snake grounds out the nub of his cigar and shifts, turns around so that he can sit on the bed proper. Kaz moves with him and is surprised when Snake reaches out to pull him down into a tight embrace. He tucks his arm between them, knocks their foreheads together. It’s suffocatingly intimate. Snake hums quietly and says, “easier to fold now, with so much less of you.”

“Is that what you got out of this conversation?”

Snake runs his fingers through Kaz’s blood-stained hair, then over the bruises on his neck. “No more of this. I don’t enjoy beating you down as much as you seem to enjoy me doing it.”

“You’re a goddamn liar.”

“Hmm?”

“If you don’t enjoy it, why don’t you fuck Ocelot?”

“Why would I sleep with Ocelot?”

“Exactly. He’s not like me. He won’t fight you again and again - sincerely _fight_ you - even though he has no chance of ever winning.”

“Is that your professional opinion as my _psychiatrist_ , Kazuhira Miller?”

“I let you smash my head through a mirror and ten seconds later, you couldn’t get my pants off fast enough. What is that?”

“You seemed like you needed it.”

“Can’t you just _admit_ …” Kaz twists in Snake’s grip, tries to jerk out of it. “I can admit it. I like it when you beat the shit out of me. Can’t you just say _‘Kaz, I like to fuck with you.’_ Jesus _Christ_ , you always have to frame it like it’s a lesson, like you’re doing all this for my own good. Just admit that putting me in my place turns you on. Why can’t you _just_ -” 

Big Boss flips them over and pins Kaz to the mattress - and not in a _playful_ or gentle way this time. This is all business. Snake’s good humour has switched off and he’s staring down at Kaz with a dangerous, impatient glint in his eye.

Kaz’s heart flutters in his chest, thrumming like a caged butterfly. He hasn’t been held down like this in years. More than years - he feels like the last time he was held down like this was in another life; and it was. Back to the dirt, a grenade in his hands and the monstrous form of the legendary soldier bearing down on him while he tried to charm the beast with his silver tongue… he was a different person before Snake came along and took ownership of his death.

“I’m not the same man I was in the 70s either,” Snake growls. “We do things differently, now, Kaz. No more messing around. _This_ -” he closes a hand around Kaz’s throat to demonstrate. “This is messy. Do you know why you weren’t told where I was? Why you weren’t told the truth? Because you take things too personally. Because you can’t let things go. Because you let your emotions cloud your judgement. Kaz - you’re furious with me, but who was it who let Cipher into Mother Base?”

“... me. I was… the one who did it.”

“Yeah, you were. Now think about it seriously. Who are you really mad at? Huey Emmerich? Zero? Me? Or are you mad at yourself? Isn’t that why you want so badly to feel pain?”

Kaz’s eyes have pulled so wide that they’re catching all the light in the room. The push and pull of midnight traffic flickering through the blinds, the moonlight catching on the shards of the broken mirror, the fierce, deep blue of Snake’s one good eye. He’s right, god, Big Boss is _right_ , he’s _always fucking right_. 

“And despite all that,” Snake says magnanimously, “I still came here. I still answered your summons. I'd like you to be with me for what's to come, but if you can’t get past this - if you can’t stop feeling sorry for yourself and blaming everyone else for your own mistakes - you’re of no use to me.”

“All I have ever wanted,” Kaz whispers, voice unsteady, “is to be of use to you.”

Snake lets go of his throat, eases his knee off Kaz’s sternum. “Tell me how you want it to be and I’ll tell you yes or no. That’ll be the end of it.”

What ‘end’ means in this case is ambiguous. He wouldn’t put it past the Boss to kill him straight out if he gives the wrong answer. And that’s fine - Kaz doesn’t think that he’s going to die tonight, because he knows who he is again. His eyes are alight with it - no more stabs in the dark, no more whispering revenge fantasies to ghosts in the night. He’s back where he belongs now.

“You’re going to change the world,” Kaz says. “And I want to see that through with you, right until the end.”

Big Boss nods, so Kaz continues. He can hear his voice growing lighter, like all that weight he’s been carrying is falling away, sloughing off his soul like a dead layer of skin. “Well - Ocelot’s your eyes and ears, right? And the Phantom is your sword. So let me be your Pen. I just don’t want to be in the dark again. You can use me, push me around, ask me to do terrible things in your name, I… I don’t care. Just don’t lie to me and I’ll do anything you want. And if you lie to me again…”

“You won’t forgive me a second time?”

Kaz jabs Snake in the forehead. “I haven’t forgiven you _this_ time. Just remember that.”

Snake sits up. He thinks it through. “Okay,” he says, the severity drained from his face and shoulders. “That sounds fair.” Then he starts laughing. “Hnh - if only I’d known back then that it’d be this easy to get you to stop all your petty nitpicking...”

“ _Boss_ …” and the nickname sounds true again. “I never said that I would _agree_ with you on everything. Sure, you lecture me all the time, but there’s a lot of basic things that you don’t know shit about. That’s what I’m here for.”

“Ah - there you are.” Snake grabs his face and tilts it so that he can examine it better in the light. “That’s my Kaz.”

“Yeah,” Kaz breathes out and lets his eyelids fall shut. He feels more himself than he has in ten years. “ _Yours_.”


	5. [1996] Washington State

**1995**

“H-hey Snake, you got a light?”

“Yeah.”

Snake hands Fox a cigarette and lights it himself. The flash of yellow light makes the shadows jump the sharp planes of Fox’s pale features, revealing how deep the lacerations on his neck really run. He’d been tied to a pipe with chicken wire around his wrists, ankles and jugular when Snake found him. It’s a wonder he can even talk, the wire had been pulled so tight. Snake stares at Fox with wide, unfettered eyes as the older agent leans his head back against the brick and puts the crumpled cigarette to his lips. The skin of his neck is so tattered that it moves around his breath like a loose sleeve, a dead exoskeleton ready to be shucked.

“Fox,” Snake says lowly. “What the hell did they do to you?”

Fox exhales an expert smoke ring despite his wounds. “Nothing too bad. Been through worse. Just need a smoke break then I’m outta here.”

“You’ve been through worse? Looks like what you’ve been through is the _wringer_. Can you even walk?” Fox’s ankles are cut half an inch deep in places. Snake’s staring at his rolled up pant cuffs, and how they’re caked with drying blood. Fox’s eyes follow the direction of Snake’s gaze, but his expression remains blank.

“Huh. You’re right. It looks pretty bad.”

“Let me patch you up,” Snake says, grounding his smoke out on the wall.

“You sure you got the time?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Snake maneuvers his knife to cut a few strips from the leg of his own uniform. “I’m not gonna argue with you about this.”

Fox nods. Snake's surprised that he doesn’t protest even for show. Then again, FOXHOUND agents were generally above such posturing. No one got sent on assignment by Big Boss himself without having earned every inch of their post. Snake pops open one of his procured Outer Heaven rations, searching for something that could be used to make a rough saline solution. As he’s heating up the emergency disinfectant he’s souped up, Fox says:

“Hey. Mind if I tell you a story?”

Snake chuckles. “What, like a bedtime story? C’mon, Fox - stay with me here.”

“Don’t worry. I’m awake. This just… made me think of something.”

Snake nods. He’s more worried than he’s letting on - keeping Fox talking is probably the best thing for him at the moment. Snake wants to monitor the tenor of his voice, make sure he isn’t getting delusional. It takes a moment for Fox to continue. He’s taking a long, languid drag off the borrowed cigarette.

“Do you know what a Tiger Cage is?”

“Yeah. Kind of torture device used in Vietnam POW camps, right?”

“Sort of. More like a trash can, where they put prisoners when they were done with them. Mesh cages rooted deep in the mud, about five and a half feet long and just a foot or two off the ground. When they didn’t think they could get anymore information out of a guy, they’d put him in one and leave him there until he died, usually in a puddle of his own excrement and blood.”

“Oh good. It’s _this_ kind of story.”

“Mmm. Yeah. The only kind I know unfortunately. Wish I had some milk and cookies for you, rookie.”

“Glad you’re lucid enough to make fun of me. Listen - I’m about to wrap your ankles. This is gonna hurt, so brace yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Fox says calmly. There’s no hitch, no waver in his voice. He’s a consummate professional - he isn’t even breaking a sweat through the pain. _Damn_ , Snake thinks. _He really is the best_.

“So. You were going to tell me about Tiger Cages?” Snake adjusts the angle of Fox’s left leg so that he can tie a better knot.

“Yeah. Well… when I was a kid… I pissed a soldier off by… dropping something I shouldn’t have dropped, stepping on his toes, I don’t remember... the offense doesn’t matter, I guess. Anyway, he threw me into a Tiger Cage. Pulled the corpse right out of it and threw me in. It had been raining like hell the last few days so the cage was half flooded with this real dark, thick mud so if I laid down I would have drowned.”

Snake works diligently to clean and dress the wounds as Fox talks. He’s tempted to check Fox’s face, to see what’s going on in his eyes, around the edges of his mouth as he tells this story. The man’s voice is cool and smooth as a slab of marble.

Fox says: “I knew the soldier didn’t mean to leave me in there long enough to die, but I probably would have. It was the first time I was able to clearly conceptualize death. Instead of yelling for help, I shoved my arms beneath the water line - the mud was slippery, smelled like shit, but the rainstorms had made the earth around the roots of the cafe soft and malleable. So I started digging. I dug until my fingers were bloody and ragged, till I chipped off most of my fingernails. But you know what? I didn’t even feel the pain - just the dead certainty that when it was all over, I would still be alive.”

Snake yanks the knot tight on Fox’s left ankle and starts working on his right. He keeps an eye on Fox’s impassive face from the corner of his vision. He’s sweating a bit. The beads of perspiration are visible in the hollow beneath his chin, but his skin doesn’t feel feverish.

“An experience like that shows you the kind of person you are. Shows you whether desperation strips you down to fear or aggression.”

“Survival instinct, huh?” Snake grunts. There was a test in FOXHOUND basic meant to test just such a thing: a group of them had been drugged at dinner one night only to wake up in a wooden box buried three feet underground with a random tool, two hours of air and an emergency radio set to Colonel Campbell’s frequency strapped to them. Snake’s journey out of the make-shift grave had been so fevered that he’d nearly slit the throat of the soldier assigned to guard the RV point. He couldn’t imagine the effect of a similar experience on a child.

“Mmm. Like an animal.” Fox raises a hand with great effort and jabs a thumb towards the FOXHOUND emblem on the arm of his tattered uniform. “Like the rest of us. That’s how I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That this is where I belonged.”

“In… FOXHOUND?”

Fox hesitates a moment. He finishes off his smoke with a laboured inhale and a thoughtful expression. When the cigarette is drowned by its own ash, he flicks away the butt and says: “You know, Snake. Not just anyone can do what we can. And there’s nothing else I can do.”

“I find that hard to believe. You’re a resourceful guy.”

Fox grunts. “You ever taken a stab at civilian life, rookie? It’s not so easy.”

Snake relaxes and falls back against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with Fox. “I thought,” he begins, tone guarded, “about… raising dogs.”

Fox shoots him a surprised look. “Raising dogs? Really?”

Snake fetches himself a smoke and pointedly avoids eye contact. Fox actually laughs - kindly, and honestly. The life is coming back into his voice like colour being painted onto a black and white photograph. He laughs, and slaps Snake lightly on the back. “- you’d be good at it. You’re really… gentle. Someone like me… I’ve forgotten how to be that way.”

“That’s strange,” Snake says without thinking. “Miller said almost the exact same thing.”

Fox gets real quiet. Snake catches him turning away, his expression darkening beneath his shaggy bangs. Snake feels suddenly self-conscious at allowing himself to be so unguarded with a more experienced agent just because, what, he did the man a solid and gave him a smoke? Fox isn’t that much older than him. It’s easy to forget how vast his experience is in comparison.

Finally, Fox speaks. “Snake…” he says quietly. “Don’t trust Miller.”

Snake meets Fox’s gaze and sees that the man is dead serious. “... why?”

Fox presses his eyes shut, looking more pained than he did when Snake soaked his wounds. His lips flatten. “FOXHOUND’s not a family, Snake. It’s a pack of wolves. Tell me: what kind of animal fakes a wound?”

“A domesticated dog might, but certainly not a wild wolf.”

“Hnh. Exactly.”

Snake doesn’t _quite_ understand the implication - and he certainly doesn’t have the time to unwind it in the middle of a mission - but he decides not to pry. He’s a rookie, after all, and the personal lives and vendettas of his senior officers are none of his business.

Fox groans softly as he braces his hand on one knee and rises to his feet. He stretches out his limbs one at a time and then tightens his bandanna. The fabric is bright red, like a warning sign. He could afford to flaunt colour the way others couldn't; anyone unfortunate enough to catch sight of him wouldn’t live long enough to sound the alarm.

“It’s a long way out of a hot zone. Spare another smoke?”

Snake frowns; he’s actually running low, but Gray Fox looks like a dead man walking. It would be cruel to deny him a simple request. Begrudgingly, Snake hands over his third last cigarette. Fox nods gratefully and stores it under the fold of his bandanna, right behind his ear.

“When the time comes, Snake, you need to do what we can that other people can’t: don’t think. Just survive.”

“When what time comes, Fox?”

Fox cocks his head back. Even in the near-darkness of the storage room they’re stowed away in, his face looks like it’s cut from glass. His mouth cracks into a wide, wolfish grin and he rubs at the wounds on his throat. “Don’t worry, Snake. You’ll know.”

 

[The room is silent except for the quiet breathing. Someone sleeping? At 3:21:32 breathing is disturbed.]

“What the... is someone there?"

[Scuffling; a gun being cocked, safety switched off.]

“Boss?”

[no answer]

“... Ocelot?”

[no answer]

“Of course not. If you were Ocelot, you’d want to let me know immediately that you’d been watching me sleep.”

[no answer]

“I know you’re in my room. If you’re here to kill me, just get it over with. Do I... _ha_ , do I look like I can _fight_? If not - well, either way, there’s no point staying hidden.”

[no answer]

“.... _Snake_...?”

[no answer]

“Snake, is that you?”

[something moves through the air. two feet hit the floor, quietly.]

“Who the hell are _you_?”

“I’m the person Big Boss sent to retrieve you.”

“.... I don’t know you.”

“No. You don’t.”

“So, why should I trust you?”

“Because Big Boss trusts me. And you trust Big Boss.”

“...”

“I’m the person Big Boss sends to do his most important jobs, and I don’t fail him.”

“What makes you think that I’m going to believe a word you say?”

“He said you would probably react that way.”

“Well, relay my apologies to Snake then: I’m sorry for being so fucking predictable.”

“Tell him yourself.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Yes, you are. As I said: I don’t go home empty-handed.”

“Really? Good luck dragging Mother Base’s X.O. off into the night with our entire security team on your tail, then. If Snake wants me, he has to come get me _himself_.”

[a flurry of sharp movements punctuated by the slick whisper of a knife being drawn - Miller grunts.]

“Miller. Don’t touch that button.”

“... hmph, you gonna cut my other hand off?”

“...”

“ _Go ahead_. Someone recently told me the only thing I’m good for is my brain.”

[the next sound is a thorough crack - cartilage, not bone snapping. a fist smacking against clothed flesh once, twice, three times. a body is slammed up against the metal wall. rough breathing.]

“... Big Boss says the time has come.”

“The time for what!?”

“He said that you should know better than anyone: the time to rebuild Outer Heaven.”

[it takes a while for miller to respond]

“... _oh_.”

[CLICK]

**1996**

It’s 7:16pm on a Tuesday night when Solid Snake lets Master Miller in from the rain.

It’s an entirely unexpected visit. Callers are rare enough that David slips a .45 into the waist of his pants before he answers the intercom. When Miller’s voice comes over the cracked connection - a little hesitant - David knocks his head against the wall, sighing at the depth of his own paranoia. _Get a grip Snake. Anyone you’d call an enemy is a man that you put in the ground yourself_.

There’s a weird background noise to Miller’s voice over the intercom, but David doesn’t think much about it until he hears the extra set of feet padding down the hall after his uneven gait. They’re light and they bounce along at twice the speed of a human’s. David’s not surprised to see a dog when he swings the door open, but he’s... _surprised_ to see a dog.

“Hey David,” Miller greets him jovially. “Nice evening, huh?” He’s soaking wet. Between his crutch and the leash, of course he had no way to carry an umbrella. The dog beside him is visibly aged, but he circles behind Miller with the giddy impatience of a puppy despite his arthritic limp. He makes sure that David is looking at him before he barks twice and then shakes the water from his fur, drenching Miller a second time.

“ _DD_!” Miller grouses. “You couldn’t do that somewhere else? I - I promise, he’s better trained than he looks.”

“I… didn’t know you had a dog.” David says, awkwardly. The last time he and Miller had been alone together was the night David was caught drunk at FOXHOUND HQ. Miller, in fact, had been making extravagant excuses to prevent them ever being alone in a room again right up until David’s suspension. A house call was… unexpected.

Miller wrenches water from the bottom of his coat with a long-suffering sigh. “I don’t have a dog,” he says. “I took this one on as a favour.” He glances at David over the rim of his sunglasses. “Hey - kid, are you gonna invite me in or what?”

“Oh. Right.”

Honestly, David _wasn’t_ going to invite him in. His apartment is a disaster, a ghost town. The only thing in his bedroom is a sleeping bag and a stack of borrowed books. His living room has a radio and a small, metal table that he uses to tune up his guns. He doesn’t want Miller to ask him about the empty cupboards, the fact that he only owns one pair of boots or the layer of dust covering his stove. He spends most of his time drunk, or outside. The weekend before, he’d taken a bus out beyond the city limits, right to the end of the line, and went walking in Kanisku with nothing but two packs of smokes and a knife. He’d hiked up nearly the entire length of the Kootenai River Valley - fell asleep beneath the open sky, drummed up fish from the frigid rivers, worried about nothing except the next place his foot would fall along the path. He stared at the stars and thought about how Nanabozho went north forever, and considered not going back himself. He only turned around when he realized that he’d finished his last cigarette.

He invites Miller in because of the dog. DD trots in like he owns the place, his fur still dripping rainwater. David has always felt more human around dogs than people. He used to help out at a rescue shelter when he lived with the Reeses in Grant’s Pass. _“The best way to keep you out of juvie,”_ his foster mother said. It was a joke, but David often suspected that it was the way he behaved with the dogs that convinced them to keep him until he was eighteen instead of shipping him off the first chance they got like most of the homes he’d been in.

“What breed is he?” David asks, genuinely curious. 

“He’s a, uh, _huskie_ ,” Miller doesn’t sound quite certain. “Yeah, definitely a huskie.”

Snake quirks an eyebrow and examines the dog’s profile as Miller kneels to unhook his collar. “Sure he’s a purebreed? Looks like he might have more than a little wolf in him.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“It’s just that he’s… kinda big. Wolfdogs and huskies might look similar, but they’ve got entirely different temperaments. Wolfdogs can be quite a handful.”

“Mmm, well - this one’s a good dog. Old, though. Probably on his last legs. He - DD, DD, get down!” The moment Miller takes the leash off, DD skitters across the floor leaps for David’s chest, pawing at his shoulders so that he can lick his face. “Sorry,” Miller drags himself to his feet and gestures vaguely. “He really likes… people like _you_.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Kid, do you like dogs or not?”

David has gotten to his knees so that he and DD can interact at eye-level. He notices for the first time that the dog is missing an eye. “Yeah. I’ve always wanted a dog.” Or _twenty_ , he adds silently.

“Good. That makes this easy then. I actually came here to ask a favour: I’m leaving the country, and I need someone to take my dog.”

David’s eyes snap up in surprise. Miller’s staring down at him completely stone-faced. “You’re serious.”

“Whaddaya say? He’s pretty cute, huh?”

“I-” okay, yeah, the dog is really cute. DD dips forward to lick David on the cheek and then nuzzle at his ear. When David gets to his feet, the dog leans back and obediently goes to heel, his thick tail thumping excitedly against the fake hardwood. “You couldn’t have asked me this over the phone, why?”

“I thought that if you saw the dog first you’d have a harder time saying no,” Miller admits with a casual shrug. He loops his cane over his elbow and goes to pull up a seat at the island in David’s tiny kitchen. The stool he corrals is one of the only two seats in the entire apartment. “C’mon - sit down and have a drink with me. We’ll talk about it.”

“You know, this is my apartment, Master. Just because you were my drill sergeant once doesn’t mean you can order me around on my home-ground. I’m not exactly military anymore, you know.” _And as soon as my suspension’s over and my papers are all in order, I’m outta here_.

“Well… I’m not military anymore either, David. Just tendered my resignation this morning.”

David blinks in surprise. The whispers in FOXHOUND when David was still serving were that Miller was poised to take over Campbell’s old X.O. position. “Really?”

“Mmm hmm. So think of this as some final advice from your former teacher on how to be a good host: when a nice old man comes in from the rain, you offer him either a warm drink, or a _stiff_ drink.”

Despite his sardonic protestations, David begins checking his fridge, DD following along behind him the whole time. He frowns at the contents therein: coffee creamer and vodka. He considers offering Miller a vodka on the rocks, but remembers what happened the last two times he interacted with Master Miller with a little liquor in the mix. He slams the fridge shut and goes to search his equally desolate cupboards.

“Oh, come on, you can’t be that old,” David says, a bit more rakishly than he intended. Wisecracking keeps the tremble out of his voice. He feels better already, painting his words with false light. “Master, you don’t look a day over -”

“Careful, kid.”

“- thirty-five,” David finishes. It’s almost true. Miller smiles ruefully and taps his finger against the surface of the island.

“I’m turning fifty this year. Which makes me a goddamn senior citizen entitled to a cup of coffee.”

“Actually, in Washington State you’re not considered a senior until sixty.”

“I wish we were in training again, David, so I could fail your ass back to basic.” 

“I have green chai,” David says firmly. “So you’re getting a cup of green chai.” He actually does have coffee, but something here is telling him that this evening is going to go a lot smoother if he nudges back against Miller’s characteristically pushy nature. If neither of them are military men anymore, there’s not really any point in allowing their interactions to be ruled by the rigid confines of hierarchical rank.

He fills the kettle and sets it on the stove. He only owns two mugs: one is plain black, chipped; the other is a gaudy tourist souvenir he bought when attending Green Beret training at Fort Bragg in North Carolina. Before being sent to Iraq, North Carolina from the West Coast was the furthest he’d travelled in his life. He cherished the memory of that first flight over the US heartland, watching the land change colour and character over the course of five short hours. He felt like he was seeing the whole world in a grain of sand, eternity in an hour. At eighteen, David had believed such worldliness to be the path to inner peace. He was a lot more worldly now, but he didn’t feel any wiser, or any happier.

DD follows him to the stove and back again before finally returning to Miller’s side to settle at his feet. David joins the older man at the island; he hands Miller the tourist mug and enjoys the incredulous expression on his face as he looks the hideous, neon shapes over. 

David wraps both hands around his mug to absorb the heat. “You’re... leaving the country?”

Miller is dunking his teabag to stir up the leaves. “Yup.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. Maybe for good.”

 _That_ gets David’s attention. His chest seizes up as suddenly the mood in the apartment shifts entirely; this isn’t an ordinary friendly house-call, Miller has come to say _goodbye_. “Where... are you going?”

“... home,” Miller answers, hesitantly.

“Home?”

“Mmm. Yeah - I never told you, I guess. I’m not actually American. I figure I’ve been here long enough. I realized recently that there’s not really any reason for me to keep working for FOXHOUND, since the only reason I was there was…”

“Because of Big Boss,” David says darkly. Miller nods and takes a sip of his tea.

“Roy’s fine with it. Most everyone is fine with it. But I’m not, so I’m going… home.”

“Where’s home?”

Miller wags his finger and tsks. “David, I’m not going to make it that easy for you.”

“What?”

“With Big Boss gone, there’s not a person in FOXHOUND who knows who I really am. I’ve been living on forged documentation for nearly two decades now.” Miller’s tone is playful, but the edges of his words are sharp. He’s not joking around.

“... I can’t believe that.”

“Well, it’s true. Disappointed that I’m not as straight-laced as I pretend?”

David shakes his head. It seems right, somehow. Miller’s the kind of guy who always asks your opinion but never offers his own. David tries to think about what he really _knows_ about Master Miller, beyond his favourite brand of whiskey and his taste in literature. Every bit of information he’d ever learned about the man’s past had just created more questions.

“Nah. But you think I’m gonna sell you out?”

“Of course not, David. But…” Miller sighs and sets his chin in his palm. The outline of his pupils are visible through the shades; his expression is wistful, regretful. “When you keep secrets like that for so long, it becomes a part of you.” He stares at the blank wall for a while before he seems to regain his cheer. He paints on a grin and slams his hand on the table with renewed resolve: “How about this. If you guess where I’m originally from, I’ll tell you my real name.”

“You’re not American, and your name isn’t McDonnel Benedict Miller. Next you’re going to tell me you’re not a natural blonde.”

“Very funny,” Miller retorts flatly. “... but, Miller’s actually my father’s name. It’s not the name I was born with, but it’s still mine.”

 _You don’t know his name or where he’s from or why he looks so goddamn sad when he says something like_ that.

“How many guesses do I get?”

“Three.”

“Okay.” David takes a drink of his tea and works through the evidence in his head. He says: “First guess: Colombia.”

Miller’s eyes flutter wide and David can’t keep himself from smirking. Got it in one. “Uh huh. I-interesting guess,” Miller stutters a bit and straightens in his seat. “What makes you say Colombia?”

“You speak flawless Spanish. And the fact that you want me to guess probably means that your appearance is somewhat unusual compared to an American’s average conception of your countrymen. Colombia has a high indigenous population compared to other Spanish-speaking Latin countries like Brazil or Costa Rica, so a light-eyed blonde man like you would stick out.”

“Heh,” Miller regains his composure with an amused shake of his head. “Your reasoning is sound, but you’re _way_ off kid.”

“You looked shocked when I said it.”

“Well,” Miller dips down to pat DD between the ears. “I spent some time in Colombia when I was your age.”

David files away that newest piece of information. He knows that Campbell met Big Boss in San Hieronymo near Colombia in 1970. He also knows that Campbell didn’t meet Miller until the 90’s, and that Big Boss was gone from South America by the mid-70s. So if Miller was due to turn fifty this year, that meant that he must have met Big Boss when he was… twenty-four? twenty-five…?

 _But what does that mean_? David feels like he’s been handed a very important puzzle piece, but he can’t make head or tails of it. He watches Miller’s expression soften into a very real smile as he rubs his knuckles between his dog’s ears. David sets down his mug and pins Miller with a serious look.

“Master, you…”

Miller interrupts him. “David - me and DD have been out on the town for a while. Wanna grab him a bowl of water?”

David meets Miller’s expectant grin with a flat stare - how blatantly could you possibly change the subject? Miller completely refuses to acknowledge the look - _of course_. David sighs and gets to his feet. DD’s ears go alert and he jumps up to follow him to the sink. David fills a bowl with cool water and sets it down for him. Then he remembers something.

“Hey Master… I actually have something for you. Wait a minute.”

He goes to his room and returns with a faded, but otherwise well-maintained, copy of Yukio Mishima’s _Decay of the Angel_. Miller adjusts his aviators before taking the book back. 

As David hands it over, he says: “East Germany?”

“Is that a guess?”

“Mmm.”

“Well,” Miller flips through his book a few times before looking up at David. “I actually can see how you’d think that. Restless kids from ex-Axis countries ended up all over in the 70s. But no. That’d be a little obvious, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah,” David knew the guess was a throwaway, but that was part of his strategy. He pauses, then asks: “am I on the right track?”

“After all this time you expect me to give you a clue? That’s like cheating, kiddo.” Miller slaps the novel onto the table between them with a resounding thud. As David slides back into his seat, Miller taps the book’s cover with the back of his knuckles and asks: “So. What did you think?”

David rolls his shoulders back and sighs. “That’s a loaded question.”

“Did you actually read it?”

“Of course I read it. Why else would I be giving it back to you?”

“Oh, I’m just used to…” Miller waves his hand, dismissing his own thought before it gets going. “Nevermind.”

DD - having made an investigative round of the apartment on David’s heels - pads back into the kitchen and nudges his nose into the palm of David’s hand. David concedes to pet his muzzle and ruffle the fur of his neck. He’s rewarded with DD’s continued trust: the old dog curls up under _his_ stool this time.

He addresses Miller. “You couldn’t have leant me something a bit lighter while I was trying to literally drink myself to death?”

Miller laughs. “I doubt it would have had a much more heartening effect on you had you read it in better circumstances. I read it in ‘72 when I… didn’t have much to worry about - comparatively - and it still made me want to down a quart of tequila and go walking off into the woods for a few years. But I think it’s important that we-”

“ _‘Read books that make us feel like shit sometimes’_?” David finishes in his best impression of Miller’s performative flippancy. Miller’s brow furrows.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No,” David diverts away from the question; the truth is, he was _actually_ trying to flirt. “But I think only _you’d_ hand a “rookie” a book that romanticizes suicide after the state you saw me in.”

“Hmm. Did you actually consider killing yourself, David?”

It’s easy for David to shake his head ‘no’. He gets the feeling that if he ever stuck a gun in his mouth, he’d end up chewing off the hand that held it. If he wanted to die, he would have let Big Boss do it back in Outer Heaven. What’s hard to admit is that even though being awake and alone with himself has been a struggle, he’s slept pretty easy these past few months.

“Well -” Miller says, “- the Japanese have a saying: _"If one has a will to die, one could do anything”_. I was hoping you’d… do anything. But it looks like my concerns were misplaced. You’re more like the Boss than he anticipated, I think.”

David flinches at that. “You know… I’m not sure that I -” he turns his mug around as he tries to formulate a thought to derail any brewing conversations about _Big Boss_. “- understood all of the cultural subtleties. I get Mishima’s point - the past is more beautiful the further away you are from it. Clinging to it is a delusion that ‘decays’ the present. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that Mishima himself was endorsing the delusion.”

“Well, in Japan... when the war was over, they were forced to adapt to survive. Some level of conscious Westernization had been a policy since before the Meiji Restoration, but those last few steps were imposed by America, during a state of defeat. Mishima’s an extreme example, but that push and pull between traditional values and the necessity of change was really one of the driving cultural conflicts in Japan in the last century.”

Miller is silent a moment. He stares into his tea and runs his thumb along the rim of the hideous mug. “And that’s the thing, isn’t it?” he continues. “Everyone has their own personal golden age. Even when you can see the cracks in it, it’s impossible to entirely wipe the shine off.” He couldn’t make it more obvious that he was talking about himself if he put a blaring, neon sign above his head.

“Master…”

David studies his old teacher’s profile in the harsh glare of his kitchen’s fluorescent overheads. Beneath the unflattering light, he begins to look his age. His skin is remarkably sun-damaged, David notices, and holds a tan even in the middle of a rainy, west coast January. He looks wistful as he stares out the window at the storm - relaxed, _accessible_. David’s not certain how to feel at the moment: he’s a little annoyed, honestly, that after so many months Master Miller would barge into his house unannounced and pick at his personal issues while dangling his own secrets - not even secrets, something as simple as his _real name_ \- just out of reach like a damned _game_.

It’s that curiosity and frustration that continues to draw him to Miller. David knows that humility is important, but that’s been a luxury he could easily afford in his very isolated life. The things that he is good at - combat, languages, marksmanship, animals - have always come to him very easily. There are a lot of traits that have separated him him from others in his past, but that ease of purpose… that silent confidence… it’s...

Miller makes him feel unbalanced, out of his depth. Even more so because it’s clear that that is the desired effect of their interactions - it’s a challenge offered. David wants to unwind his exterior like it’s a puzzle, a _mission_ , one of Miller’s own obstacle courses...

“Is that why you’re leaving?” he asks. “Trying to escape the shadow of your own golden age?”

Miller starts, shaken out of his brief reverie. “You’re awfully interested in my past all of a sudden, kid.”

“Yeah, well…” David stands up. He rounds the kitchen island and pushes Miller’s mug away so that he can brace his hand on the counter and lean over him. The moment lingers as David gives Miller a chance to pull back. When he doesn’t, David takes a chance and kisses him. Not the way he did last time - this time he’s sober, so he’s more careful about it. _Turn me down now_ , the kiss says, _but I’ll try to make this worth your while_.

Miller waits out the entire kiss before putting his hand up between them. “David,” he says tiredly. “You really need to stop this. I’m old enough to be your father. And then some.”

“You know… if you’re going to pull that card, shouldn’t you be the one to put the brakes on it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Calling me ‘kid’ and ‘kiddo’, then putting all the responsibility on me. Master… if I’m a kid, then shut this down.”

Miller actually sputters. “You… _you_ think I’ve been… encouraging this?”

 _Really_? “You haven’t been _dis_ couraging it.” He feels like it wouldn’t be fair to remind Miller that he’d jerked him off in the back of his car three months earlier, not when David had the advantage. 

“David -” Miller gropes for his cane and stumbles to his feet without breaking eye contact. His arm sweeps over the table in the process and sends his mug crashing to the ground. DD makes an inquisitive noise and snaps his head up, startled, with his ears and tail to alert. Miller steadies on his feet and makes a quiet noise of irritation as he looks from David, to the spilt tea, to his dog and back again. “It’s okay, DD-” he says soothingly, his voice much, _much_ softer than the lines on his face. “Go back to sleep, boy.”

DD obediently puts his head on his paws, but his large, yellow eye follows Miller as he limps past David. “You know - I just came here to check up on you out of the goodness of my heart, because I suspected that you weren’t doing well.”

David crosses his arms, skeptical. “Didn’t you just tell me that those fears were misplaced?”

“I’m not afraid that you’re gonna put a bullet in your head, no, but you’re obviously fucked without the military to tell you what to do. Like this -” Miller waves his cane towards David’s bedroom. “You haven’t even put a bed down. You’re trying to tell me that you’re equipped to enter civilian life like this? What did I tell you about not _letting it show_? David, you’re not even trying. And just because I’ve showed you a crumb of kindness, you’ve latched onto me.”

David’s chest goes tight as a wave of hot anger courses down the center of his rib cage. He rears himself up to his full height and speaks without thinking. “Wasn’t that your intent?”

“ _What_?”

“You’ve been off since you got here, Master. I don’t think this visit is for my benefit at all. Why show someone a ‘crumb of kindness’ if you don’t mean anything by it? You’ve done this to me before - you open up, but the moment I push back you get hostile. I think you need someone to talk to, but you have no idea how to ask for it. Telling me not to let it show… don’t patronize me with this hot and cold crap.”

“I -”

“I’m not an idiot. You’re only upset because I caught you. But something’s changed. What are you so afraid of?”

All the authority drains from Miller’s countenance. He draws into himself a bit, pulling his crutch close as if to maintain his last few layers of armour. He begins to laugh, but it’s not a very confident noise, almost like it’s been cracked down the center with a very precise hammer strike. “David,” he scolds very quietly. “Think you’ve got me all figured out, do you?”

He looks so absolutely pathetic for a moment that David finds it unbearably attractive - Miller standing in the half-light with his pale hair feathering as it dries, his wordless insistence on wearing sunglasses indoors almost comical with his veneer slipping… it’s such obvious theater and it doesn’t actually work unless he’s got the dialed turned up to 11. David closes the distance between them and pushes Miller the rest of the way into his bedroom with the same motion that he kisses him.

It’s a coarse kiss, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. David’s never been certain the right way to do this except to let his partner guide him - to predict their needs based on subtle physical clues; it’s the opposite of fighting someone one on one, but it requires the same set of skills. The correct way to unravel someone as pathologically guarded as Master Miller is to kiss him sincerely. That, David understands innately, is exactly what he needs right now. His calculation proves accurate: the moment his grip on Miller’s arm softens is the moment that Miller's lips unfold.

David elbows the door shut behind them and spins Miller to push him gently against the wall. He rakes his fingers through the fine hairs at the base of his pony-tail and tugs it loose as he kisses him again. Miller sighs when they part.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been kissed like that,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Heh… oh, you know. _Nicely_.”

David raises an eyebrow at that suspicious statement. Was Miller being kissed _un_ -nicely with some measure of regularity? 

Miller frowns. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t _like_ to be kissed nicely.”

“Bullshit,” David says. “Everyone likes to be treated nicely. It’s a basic instinct to crave affection - everyone and everything needs to be handled gently once in awhile.”

“Where did you pick up an attitude like that in the military?”

David glances away and wonders what telling the truth would actually cost right now. Not much at this point, he wagers. He smiles faintly and answers: “... from helping stray dogs.”

“Ha!” Miller barks out a short, ugly laugh. “Is that what you think I am? A _stray dog_?”

“That’s obviously not what I meant.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not offended. Soldiers are called ‘dogs of war’, right? So doesn’t that make you a stray dog as well? Look around you - you’re lost without a master. Now what? You want to follow me home and hope I’ll tell you what to do?”

“No, I -”

Miller’s lip quirks unkindly and he brushes back David’s overgrown bangs with the broad side of his thumb. The gesture is uncomfortably paternal. “Your instincts aren’t wrong,” he whispers. “I’m very, very good at telling people what to do.”

Miller doesn’t kiss him, but he tips back his chin in a way that definitely _invites_ a kiss. Instead, David raises his hands and rests the tips on his fingers on the ridge of Miller’s sunglasses. He takes each arm of the shades between his thumb and forefinger and slowly begins to ease them off. Miller’s breath hitches a bit, but he doesn’t stop it from happening. David hooks the glasses into the neck of his shirt before dipping in to press their lips together. When they part, Miller slowly opens his eyes.

“Oh,” David says.

“Yeah,” Miller replies.

David reaches down to retrieve the glasses, but Miller stops him. 

“You wanted to see, kid.”

“I did. But you’re just going to laugh off any question I ask you about it, so there’s not much point, is there?”

“Oh - is that what I’m like?”

“Yeah… but that’s fine. I think I _am_ finally starting to get you.”

“No,” Miller says quietly. “You don’t know me, David. You don’t know the first thing about me. You don’t know where I’m from, you don’t know my real name and you have no idea what I’ve done.”

“Then why don’t you tell me?”

“... because I don’t want to.”

\- and that’s the end of it. Somewhere between the door slamming shut and David touching his glasses, all of Miller’s walls have come back up. David’s not certain what he did or said, but he’s got a pretty good guess. Probably should have just kissed him again. Miller retrieves his shades and slips them back on, saying nothing. David reluctantly steps aside to give the man some space. He’s disappointed, not because he was looking to get laid, but because he knows that he’s tainted his and Miller’s strange, occasionally _comfortable_ equilibrium. In about five minutes, Miller is going to walk out of his door and out of his life, potentially forever. Everyone David has ever met who he felt could understand him is either dead or MIA, which, he supposes, is an eventuality he should have been more prepared for when Big Boss first scouted him.

David pushes his bedroom door open to find DD whining on the other side. David leans down and pets him before going to retrieve Miller’s cane for him. Miller accepts it with wordless gratitude and begins silently pulling on his coat. As he sets his hand on the door handle, David calls after him.

“You’re from Japan.”

Miller freezes in the doorway.

“Heh -” David can’t entirely couch the satisfaction out of his voice. “You honestly didn’t think I’d get it right.”

Miller shrugs self-deprecatingly. “Ah - I suppose I gave myself away, didn’t I?”

“The way you spoke about Japan’s post-war identity crisis seemed pretty personally charged, yeah, but that’s not what tipped me off.”

Miller turns back to look at him curiously. 

“You said that you read _Decay of the Angel_ in 1972. The copy you leant me is a first edition english translation - and it’s from ‘74. You’re meticulous enough that I believe you know more than two languages, but being fluent enough in the Japanese alphabet to read a book that dense in your twenties seems like a tall order for someone who didn’t grow up reading it.”

“That’s a pretty obscure detail to latch on to.” Miller grins at him - one of those brilliant, gleaming smiles that he reserves for moments in which he is honestly proud of his students. He says: “Good work, Solid Snake. I hope this victory brings you peace.”

“... you’re not going to tell me your name, are you?” David says resigned.

Miller slumps against the door and shakes his head. “No. Not after all that. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Miller… why did you even come here?”

“I had something to tell you. Something important. But I... changed my mind.”

David tries to catch his gaze, but it’s impossible. Miller seems to be lost in thought - he’s staring out the window again. After a while, he straightens and taps his cane against the floor - two solid, hard strikes, as if he’s the one gearing _himself_ up to leave.

“You’re an exceptionally good read of people, David,” he says. “Use that talent responsibly. And -” Miller gives David a brief, one-finger salute before he leaves. “- take care of DD for me.”

With that, he’s gone.

David sighs and goes to pet DD between the ears. “I never actually agreed to keep you,” he informs the dog. DD’s tail is wagging, but his eye is on the door, tracking after his master. “I know,” David murmurs sympathetically. “I know…”

He shuffles through his pockets for a smoke. _Probably better that he took off_ , David thinks - anyone who made him want to smoke as much as Miller did was a relationship doomed to fail. David sits cross-legged and leans against the wall, patting his thigh to invite DD to sit with him. The dog does takes the invitation.

“Hey -” David says, “you like hiking, DD?”

DD barks enthusiastically. David takes it as a ‘yes’.


	6. [1976/86/96] FLASHBACK: CONTACT

**1976**

It’s hard to resist his natural instinct to flirt with her the moment she swings off her motorcycle. She’s leggy _and_ busty, and the way she peels off her bike gloves says that she puts a lot of effort into making sure that men notice both these things. With the sun setting over the Mediterranean as a backdrop, she looks a little like a supermodel from some tawdry American cable show, even in her grease-stained jumpsuit. Kaz is torn between a reflex to let her know that her act is working as intended, and a sudden flash of familiarity; that odd sensation you get when you meet someone who’s much better at playing a game you thought yourself good at.

So instead of flirting, Kaz decides to be the regular kind of charming. He runs a hand through his hair to make sure that it’s perfectly coiffed before offering her his hand.

“I’m -”

“I know who you are.”

She doesn’t shake his hand, but she does give him a half-lidded smile that completely diffuses his confidence. 

“O-Oh, yeah?”

“Kazuhira Miller, born in Yokosuka Japan, August 1946. Did a BA at Berkeley - something in humanities, I believe. You minored in history. Currently your passport reads _Benedict Miller_.” She tips her head to one side and makes a cute show of recalling information that she clearly has memorized. “Benedict Miller, however, was born in 1941, in Napa, California.”

“You, uh, do your research.”

She tosses her long, blonde hair over one shoulder and winks. The gesture is sort of heart-stopping, despite the obvious artifice. “I was curious. I’d been keeping tabs on John for ten years, but I’d never known him to -” she pauses and looks Kaz up and down. “... stay in one place for very long.”

 _What the hell is that supposed to mean_? Kaz doesn’t let himself get distracted the innuendo there. _Play it cool, Kazuhira_.

“So - what do I call you?”

“EVA,” she answers with a thin lipped smile. Kaz’s heart jumps. Of course, of _course_ : it’s her. “The woman”. Well, Kaz has no idea if she’s “the” woman, or even if there is “a” “woman”... he remembers getting a tape signed with her name years ago, and he remembers Snake being consistently evasive about it until Kaz was forced to drop the issue. So he assumed that this must have been the woman - because obviously there had been a _woman_ , right? A woman who broke Snake’s heart, who still had some strange emotional and sexual hold over him. That’s why he was so cagey about... and why he never….

\- that’s what Kaz had always figured because, hey, why would anyone exhibit _so much_ meticulous self control when women like Cécile Cosima Caminades were practically throwing themselves at his feet if he hadn’t been burned bad in the past? Whatever Kaz meant to say to her, to ask her, it’s all caught up in his throat beneath a cascade of entirely inappropriate and, honestly, petty questions. _What was he like when he was younger? What did you do to him? How often did you see him? Was he really that naive? Did he do the same thing to you too? The thing where no matter what crazy thing he says to you, you’d follow him to the ends of the earth? Even when he’s not around? Even when he’s -_

“Ah-” is what Kaz says. “That’s a… really… pretty name.” 

“Uh huh.”

“That’s not what I meant to say. Can you give me a do-over?”

“No, because you’re cute,” she says in what is, impossibly, a neutrally flirtatious tone. She adds: “And you know you’re cute. Which is a type to watch out for. We could talk in circles for an hour if I let you get away with that. And we have business.”

She smoothly produces an 8x11 envelope from the pack on her bike. With a demonstratively ginger gesture, she passes it to him, her smile immaculate. Kaz takes the envelope with obvious trepidation and looks it over front and back to make certain that it’s sealed properly. _That’s it?_ he asks himself. And of course that’s it - she’s just one part of Zero’s shadowy, international web. An important cog in the machine, but a solitary piece none the less. 

Kaz clutches the envelope to his chest and tries to think of an excuse to keep her here a few minutes longer. She’s a key to understanding every mistake they made, every judgement in error that tripped them up… when it was all said and done - the air cleared - all Snake had said about the “Patriots”, ultimately, was: “ _As you can see, Zero and I had different ideas, so I’m putting it all behind me._ ” But here is a woman who’s had both an inside and outside window into everything that’s happened. There’s gotta be some way to crack her armour of courtesy.

_Damnit. It’s been fifteen years since I had this much trouble talking to a beautiful woman._

“Uh,” he says prolifically as she turns to hitch back up onto her motorcycle. She tosses him a curious glance over her shoulder. The only question that crystallizes is not the most important one, but it’s the one that haunts Kaz every single day, no matter how much he tries to distract himself with business. His voice cracks a little halfway through. “Do you… know where he is?”

Her expression softens, unwinds a bit. Something changes in her eyes when turns to face him fully again - before they were like mirrors, now she - she looks sympathetic, and a little like she’s seeing him, finally. She leans against her bike and crosses her long, long legs. She says: “Yes.”

“Can you…?” 

“You seem sweet,” she replies, “and it’s not my call to make. But even if it were, I’m not sure you can be trusted with that responsibility.”

“You’ve got to be _kidding_ me-” Kaz grits his teeth to stop himself from raising his voice. His composure is shuddering like the surface of still water, disturbed by a stone. The ripples are apparent in how his fingers crush the edges of the envelope. EVA is undisturbed; she speaks plainly.

“... you collaborated with Zero.”

“But you trust Zero to take care of him _now_?”

“Well,” she chuckles. “I _know_ Zero.”

“Yeah, well I know Zero too - and you know what he did for Snake? Not a goddamn thing, except kick him while he was down and then shift the blame on somebody else. I’m not _like_ him - you might not know me, but _Snake_ does. And I-” Kaz runs out of steam, and is not certain he trusts himself to finish that sentence.

EVA purses her lips and examines him for a long, chilly moment. Then she uncrosses her legs and walks towards him - one foot in front of the other, a deliberate sway to her hips. She comes right up to him, but she has to raise her chin to meet his eyes. Before he can react - recover, really, she is _incredibly fucking hot_ \- she plucks the sunglasses right off his nose.

“Mr Miller,” she says kindly. “John likes you. And he trusted you. But you are in over your head right now. You do understand that.”

“… I…”

“I can help you get out of Europe. But I can’t tell you where he is. I’m very sorry, but it’s not negotiable.”

And well, that was that. The lady was persuasive. She hands Kaz his sunglasses back and he examines them a moment before putting them back on. They reflect the light flawlessly, but she saw right through them anyway. He twists the arm joints between thumb and forefinger, makes sure that he’s not looking at EVA when he asks: “How is he?”

EVA draws back and pulls her arms close to her chest. “That’s... complicated.”

“... yeah.”

“Could you… imagine him completely still? But still, without purpose?”

Snake did _“still”_ the same way his namesake did. Coiled, poised, ready. “No.”

EVA sighs ruefully. “Neither could I.”

**1986**

Naturally, EVA looks stunning even on the other side of fifty. Kaz wishes that he could say the same thing about his rapidly impending forties. The confidence and smoothness with which she moves to push off her motorcycle makes him feel even more insecure about his empty coat-sleeve and cumbersome crutch than usual. She stalls her bike and approaches him with a familiarity that’s perhaps a bit too casual considering that this is only the second time they’ve met.

“You’re looking well,” she says.

“Don’t mock me,” Kaz growls back, more viciously than he intended to.

“I’m not,” and she sounds quite sincere. “There’s light in your eyes. That’s more than can be said for most men and women in our line of work.” She hands him a sealed, leather envelope. It’s a perfect mirror of their meeting ten years ago, only this time Kaz knows exactly what he’s getting into.

He takes the envelope and tucks it beneath his arm, trying not to look too eager or possessive of the information. EVA juts her hips out to one side and puts her hands on her waist, staring at Kaz over the top of her very stylish tortoiseshell sunglasses.

“... why are you sticking around?” he wonders sharply. 

EVA raises both of her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “You looked like you had more to say.”

She’s not wrong. Kaz glances aside - looks at the red horizon for a moment, wondering if it’s worth it to have this conversation with someone who so had thoroughly dispelled his bullshit after so little interaction… but she’s implicitly offering to speak freely with him - no catch! - so he takes the opportunity. 

“... what do you think of all this?” he asks.

Her expression changes very subtly. It’s a half-centimetre shift in her lips that belies her true feelings. “I trust him,” she says simply. After a moment, she clarifies: “I _believe_ in him.”

“How can you, when you hadn’t heard from him in years?”

Her smile returns, although it’s faint. “I love him when I see him,” she shrugs. “The rest of the time I hardly think about him.”

Kaz can believe it, but he can’t imagine it. For him, Big Boss’ shadow looms larger and darker in his absence. Being around Snake sometimes is like getting a weird sort of contact high; like any hard drug, you’re only obsessed when you don’t have it. 

She’s silent, as if she’s waiting for a reply. Kaz waits her out, until he feels too self-conscious not to.

“What do you expect me to say to that?” he snaps. _I love him all the time? Congratulations on staying sane even though you’ve obviously been exposed to Big Boss’ dick?_

Her face twitches and she turns away. “No… no… I -” She curls into herself slowly, caging her stomach between her arms. Kaz can only see her in profile now; her lips are trembling. “It’s not that,” she whispers. “Mr Miller can you.... tell me about Eli?”

Oh, Kaz curses himself, feeling like a complete asshole. Of course, _of course_. It hits him too - he feels so guilty about how everything turned out with the kids that it feels like a literal blade stuck into his ribs sometimes. Most days, he has to pretend it didn’t even happen otherwise he’d get nothing done. He can feel the muscles in his heart contracting and expanding as it thrums loud as a drum in his ears.

“We… we tried our best…” he says helplessly.

“I don’t blame any of _you_ ,” she says in a tone of voice that makes it exactly clear _who_ she blames. “I just… want to know what he was like.”

Kaz relaxes his demeanour - something he has done very, _very_ rarely in the last two years. He can’t imagine what it must be like for her, to have to ask a virtual stranger to tell her about a boy she considers her son.

“Despite everything that happened… everything he put us through...” Kaz says. “I thought that Eli was exceptional.”

EVA glances back towards him, her smile bright but fragile. “Was he?”

“Yeah. Let me tell you all about it.”

It’s not exactly a lie.

**1996**

Ten years later, she's asking:

“Tell me about David.” She's looking ahead and running a hand through her short-cropped hair.

Kaz sighs and accepts her offer of a cigarette when she hands it to him. He hasn’t smoked proper since 1978. He puffs on it experimentally, but fails to inhale. That’s fine - she’s not a habitual smoker either.

“I think…” Kaz begins.

EVA gives him a suspicious sidelong glance. They’re standing together beneath the outcropping of Kaz’s old apartment building, waiting for the storm to pass. It hasn’t even been two hours since David saw him off. He’s honestly not sure how to answer her question. “I think that no matter what happens… he’s going to be okay.”

“Is that your honest assessment, Master Miller?”

“Would I lie?” he shoots her a charming grin.

She laughs at him honestly and snatches back her cigarette. “After all these years,” she says, “I think I’m finally beginning to understand what he sees in you.”

“Is that a good thing?”

EVA leans in close and grabs Kaz’s chin between her manicured nails. The pads of her fingers are more calloused than they look. His breath catches in his throat; even at her age, even though she’s ten years older than him, she still knows how to smoulder, how to trap a man with her gaze and her body language. And, well, _hell_ \- Kaz has always had a weakness for blondes.

“No,” she murmurs, tapping him cutely on the nose. “No, it isn’t.”

And, well, doesn’t that say it all.


	7. [1975] Costa Rica/[1996] Zanzibar Land

  
_“Perfect purity is possible if you turn your life_  
_into a line of poetry written with a_  
_splash of blood.”_  
**\- Yukio Mishima, ‘Runaway Horses’**

 

**1975**

Kaz drifts awake to the acrid scent of cigar smoke. Both fresh, and stale.

Because he hadn’t intended to fall asleep, it takes a few seconds for him to remember where he is. It’s dark and he’s two inches away from a cool, metal wall. He notices the sliver of yellow light reflected off it before he registers the warmth of a body pressed up against the small of his back. He turns his head to see Snake sitting on the edge of the cot in full camo, smoking a cigar.

“Ah! Boss, how long have you been there!?” Kaz starts and his sunglasses tumble off from where they’d been precariously resting - half-on, half-off - as he slept.

Snake leans forward and taps some ash onto the floor. “Haven’t been keeping track. You looked comfy.”

“I-” Kaz turns over and papers scatter. “I… uh, fell asleep working, apparently.”

“In my bed.”

“Yeah, well, I was -” Kaz yawns and settles back down, leaning his chin on his palm, and begins organizing the dented paperwork. “I was waiting for you so we could go over some of the numbers again.”

“I stopped by the shooting gallery and went out to examine the southern battlements. Turned off my radio. Had some… thinking to do.”

“Mmm, that’s fine.” Kaz wakes up in inches, rolling his neck and stretching out his shoulders. “I probably needed the rest. You wanna turn on a lamp so we can read?”

Snake doesn’t move. “Don’t you ever sleep on your own time?”

“Sleep is an outdated construct of the pre-globalized world. We have coffee now, Boss, and lots of it.”

“Coffee is no substitute for rest. Drink enough of it and it’ll only amplify your exhaustion. I bet if we went to do target practice right now, your average would be off the mark of your best by at least 5%. That might not seem like much in a simulation, but in a live battle that could mean the difference between survival and a bullet in your head.”

Kaz has not been awake nearly long enough to process all of the bullcrap that just came out of Snake’s mouth. He grounds the palm of one hand into his eyes and groans. “Nngh, _Boss_ , if you really want me to go back to sleep, lecturing me about shit I already know isn’t a half-bad strategy.”

Snake chuckles, “isn’t that why _‘I’m the best’_?”

Kaz gathers up all of the scattered financial and personnel reports and snaps them firmly onto his clipboard, which he then uses to smack Snake in the back of the head as hard as he can from his very un-optimal position. It’s enough to make Snake choke on a mouthful of smoke, lurch forwards off the cot and throw his arms up to shield himself from another attack. Kaz can’t stop from snickering as he rolls into a sitting position.

“You’re losing your edge, Snake, if even I can get the drop on you like that. Guess it’s true what they say - reality never lives up to the legend.”

“Hmph,” Snake flicks ash from his cigar, his shoulders hunched. “The people who get legends written about them… are not the kind of people who ever asked to be considered legendary in the first place.”

Kaz raises an eyebrow. Even in the darkness, he can tell that Snake is frowning up a storm. As his eyes adjust to the light, Kaz can see that there’s a dark smear on his cheek too - right beneath the eyepatch. It might be blood, or gunpowder. It’s probably dirt. Kaz feels a little guilty for getting on the Boss’ case when he’s only a few hours out of the hot-zone. He eases back and pats his hand on the cot mattress, inviting Snake to sit with him.

“Yeah, yeah - I’m _very_ well educated on the dangers of iconoclasm. Don’t worry - I’m not about to start calling you _El Snake_. C’mere.”

Snake takes a drag off his cigar and regards Kaz with cautious suspicion. Kaz sighs.

“Boss, _c’mon_ , I’m not gonna hit you again.”

“Not sure how I feel having to negotiate the safety of my own bed,” Snake grumbles as he lowers himself onto the cot.

“I promise,” Kaz purrs, running his hands up the length of Snake’s scapular muscles. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You say that about literally everything, Kaz,” Snake responds. “The promise starts to lose its allure after a while.” He’s playing at being grumpy, but when Kaz uses his thumbs to grind out the knots at the center of his trapezius, he fails to muffle the groan of relief it drags out of him. 

Kaz grins to himself, triumphant. “Well? Have I disappointed you yet?”

Snake doesn’t answer, which is honestly for the best. Kaz _has_ disappointed him: once or twice and very recently. Instead, Snake stubs out his cigar, relaxes his shoulders and helps Kaz ease him out of his shirt. He’s tired and achey enough that he gives himself over to Kaz’s nimble ministrations without the pretense of argument. His back is a mess up around his shoulders, the way it often gets if he’s had to drag himself through tall grass by his forearms for an extended period of time. Of course - he’d been out doing recon on a new job for two days, it was ridiculous that after that, he’d pile a round in the shooting range on top of it. For all he gives Kaz a hard time about his schedule, Big Boss is - in his own way - a workaholic too.

“Ugh, this knot’s a doozy. Hey Boss, lean over and let me just...”

Snake complies and Kaz uses his elbow to twist a deep-tissue massage along the ridge of his right shoulder. Snake lets out a shuddering, breathy moan so primal and unguarded that it’s very nearly erotic. Kaz can’t help but be smug about it; Big Boss seems larger than life sometimes - the core of the MSF is built on his hypnotic personality after all - but Kaz gets to see what’s beneath the legendary veneer. He gets to slip past the walls, peel back the layers - more than that, Snake _lets_ him do it. Which is only fair, Kaz thinks, considering how Big Boss smashed right through every single one of his own barriers without even _asking_. Kaz finishes the work with his elbow and pats Snake’s spine to signal that it’s okay for him to sit up. Snake stretches out his arms as he rises. Kaz begins rubbing the kinks out of his neck, moving his hands in perfect concert to give a good, even work-over.

“How did you get so good at this anyway?” Snake wonders, voice mellow and throaty.

Kaz freezes, his fingers pressing deep marks into Snake’s sun-darkened skin. “Er,” he laughs a little. “That’s not exactly a nice story, Boss.”

“Mmm?”

“Well… my mom, right? She… _served_ a lotta soldiers. There’s more to that job than just the obvious stuff, especially when there’s a language barrier and you’re trying to keep bored young men with guns and pent up aggression _gentle_ and happy.”

“I see,” Snake grumbles. “Americans like to think that they’re above abusing military power like that, but it’s hard for occupying soldiers to resist exercising it to get what they want.”

“Exactly. My mom, she picked up a lot of interesting skills doing the _work_ that she did, and she learned a lot about survival too. But... when I was a kid she had to do all this _heavy lifting_.” Kaz kneads the heel of his palm into the base of Snake’s spine for emphasis. “ - loading store stock off the truck, carrying huge buckets up and down the street so we’d have drinking water… and she had to carry me everywhere until I could walk, of course. She didn’t have anyone around to help. I could tell that she was always in a lot of pain. When I asked how I could help, she… taught me how to do this.”

Snake rolls his head from one side to the other. He doesn’t respond, but he also doesn’t do anything to dissuade Kaz from talking. Kaz oftens wonders how much Snake actually listens to him when he starts going on like this, always wonders if there’s some invisible line that he’ll cross someday, testing the edges of Big Boss’ patience for listening to boring stories about his childhood. It’s a delicate privilege, and an addictive one. Kaz has never had a confidant before ( _yeah,_ confidant: _the safest way - he’d decided a while ago - to define his relationship with Snake_ ); he’s never had anyone who he felt safe enough pouring out his troubles to - it was hard to put the cork back in once he’d been invited to pop it out.

“But y’know,” Kaz continues, thoughtfully. “ - I never _could_ get her to stop working herself so hard even when she got sick, not even when I finally got big enough to help. I had nearly a head in height over her by the time I was twelve, but she never let me take on the burden myself. She always split the work fifty-fifty. No matter how much I argued, even though she was turning into a bent over little old lady. Right up until she was bed-ridden for good.”

“Hnh,” Snake snorts. “I can see where you got your stubbornness from.”

“Yeah, well,” Kaz finishes up the massage and flicks Snake in the back of the head. “You’re one to talk.”

Snake laughs again, low and rumbling. He reaches for his discarded shirt and digs through the breast pockets to retrieve his half-finished cigar and zippo. The flame is a shock of light and colour in the near-darkness of Snake’s quarters. It illuminates - just for a few seconds - the dense map of scars and bruises marring his upper back. Kaz drags his fingers across a few of the older scars, the most familiar ones. He traces the circumference of a bullet-hole that nearly impacted the cervical vertebrae and marvels at how many close calls Snake has had in just forty years. He was damn lucky to even be alive.

\- suddenly, the moment feels almost _too_ familiar, too intimate. Kaz’s heart starts hammering and he gets light-headed and queasy, like he’s being suspended above a deep cavern by a rope that’s about to be cut. The sensation is halfway between a pleasant adrenaline rush and bone-chilling dread - like it might feel good to just let go and plummet all the way down, but he’s terrified of what will happen if he hits the bottom.

Kaz starts talking again just to diffuse the tension. He digs around for a topic guaranteed to get on Snake’s nerves. “But really - I’m grateful to my mom for more than just that. My ability to give a killer massage has helped me win favour in _more important_ circles, if you know what I mean.”

Snake glances at him from the corner of his eye. “You used your massages to win over your fellow soldiers in the JSDF?”

As usual, Kaz can’t tell if Snake’s making fun of him, or if he’s really that guileless. He sighs. “ _No_ , Boss. On ladies, I mean. Female soldiers get the same aches from holding guns that male soldiers do, y’know... and women, they never expect men to do stuff like that for them. A ‘massage’ is usually considered a woman’s job. So you see - there’s a reason it’s so rare for me to strike out once a girl gives me a chance.”

“Hnh. I see.” Snake’s jaw clenches a bit - he’s made it _very_ clear exactly what he thinks of Kaz’s track record with women. Kaz keeps going.

“- so you should feel honoured, because I don’t do this for just _anyone_ , Boss.”

“Actually,” Snake bites out. “ - it sounds exactly like you _do_ do this for ‘just’ ‘anyone’.”

“Aw, you know what I meant. If you’re that jealous, I can teach you all my secrets. You could probably afford to get laid more often.”

“ _Kaz_ -” Snake’s tone is a warning one - for all the shit he talks, Big Boss is shockingly easy to tease. Kaz ruffles his hair, a little patronizingly.

“ _Boss_ , Boss - hey, I’m just kidding. You’ve got your own… bizarre animal magnetism thing going on, and that works for you. Some women totally like the unwashed jungle-man thing. Natural musk and all that.”

Snake grumbles unintelligibly; Kaz can see the flush lighting up his skin even in the darkness. Satisfied that he’s levied the mood, Kaz slumps over and leans his cheek against Snake’s shoulder. He could very easily hook a hand over Snake’s hip, run the other one over the width of his thigh until it slipped between his legs... if he turned his head, he could press his lips against the nape of Snake’s neck and ghost them over the skin, picking up the taste of dirt and salt. He could so easily change the tenor of this moment with just a single touch...

\- but he doesn’t. He’s content to close his eyes and simply _listen_ to Snake’s breathing even out as he takes another drag off his cigar. It’s not something that Kaz is willing to admit to anyone, how much he _enjoys_ this. It just isn’t the kind of thing Kazuhira Miller _does_ \- quietly sharing space, listening to someone’s heartbeat, savouring the warmth of their skin and not doing anything about it… he trusts Snake not to blow his cover, to keep it a secret that even an infamous playboy like Commander Miller needs a little gentle human contact once in awhile.

A few minutes pass in silence. Snake gets close to polishing off his cigar and Kaz feels himself slipping under again, falling back into restful half-consciousness. He’s pulled awake by Big Boss saying his name.

“Mmm?” he responds, sleepily.

“Kaz. Don’t fall asleep. We still need to talk.”

“We are talking,” Kaz slurs. “We’ve been talking.”

“About MSF business.”

That wakes Kaz all the way back up. He braces his palms on the bed and pushes himself upright, pulling his feet up beneath him so that he can sit cross-legged. “Yeah, okay. Okay. But didn’t you…” Kaz yawns, “- didn’t you just scold me about how I never stop working?”

Snake doesn’t look at him. He’s got his arms slung over his thighs, and he’s tapping his cigar against his knee in an erratic pattern. Something’s wrong.

“Boss…?”

“Kaz. It’s been quiet around here lately, but we shouldn’t allow ourselves to get too comfortable. Not after what happened. We can’t put a bandaid over the wound Zero dealt us.”

Kaz is nodding along. Snake’s not saying anything he hasn’t said himself.

“Additionally,” Snake continues, “we need to consider how what we’ve built here looks to the global community…”

“Ugggh,” Kaz rubs between his eyes. He knows where this is going. “Don’t tell me Huey’s been bugging you with that UN Inspection shit of his.”

“You think it’s a bad idea?”

“Boss, it’s the _worst_ idea. Please don’t tell me to list all the reasons why.”

“No, I know. I just thought that it’d be... professional for us to consult with each other before smacking him down.” 

“I told him no. Why’d he even go to you?”

“Why did he even _go_ to me?” There’s something sharp in Snake’s tone that pulls Kaz’s attention immediately, like a knot being yanked tight. Snake gets to his feet. He rears up to his full height and takes a very long drag off the stub of his cigar before tossing it away. “He went to me because the MSF is my organization too, Kaz.”

“Yeah,” Kaz scoffs. “But that’s my point. This is a military - what are we supposed to be here? His parents? _Oh no, Mom said no - better go ask Dad_.” It takes a half-second for Kaz to realize what he’s just implied. He smacks himself lightly on the side of the head and tries to recover. “Not that we’re - I mean, _you’re_ not - it’s not like... I’m _not_ Mom.” Kaz finishes weakly.

Snake’s arms are crossed. Even in the darkness, Kaz can tell that his expression has not budged. _Oh, this is bad_ \- usually that kind of freudian slip up is the kind of thing Snake wouldn’t hesitate to jokingly bust him about.

“It’s more like,” Snake says, words clipped. “I’m your boss and you made an executive decision without consulting me.”

“... excuse me?” Kaz can’t help it - the particular tone of voice Snake is using right now is really stoking the embers of his temper. He’s used to the way Snake is most of the time, but once in awhile Snake gets really… _authoritative_. Less like a boss, and more like a father - which is messed up for multiple reasons.

“Kaz - you can’t just assume to speak for me.”

“That’s not what I -”

“I don’t assume to speak for you.”

“Boss - I didn’t think -”

“No, you _didn’t_. However you feel about Huey’s intentions, this is a major decision. I would never disregard your opinion on a financial matter that could change the course of the MSF, so you shouldn’t brush off important suggestions like this without consulting me first.”

Kaz can’t believe it - he can’t _believe_ how fucking _condescending_ Snake is being when just five minutes ago he… it’s a super-power, honestly, the way Big Boss can turn on a fucking dime like this. Just like his frigging namesake, he lays in the grass and lulls his prey into a false sense of security before springing. “What? Do you wanna do it?” Kaz snaps, throwing up his arms. “You wanna let Huey have the fucking UN in to examine our incredibly illegal nuclear equipped walking battle tank!? Is that what you want, Boss!?”

“Of course not.”

“Yeah, well - in that case, I made the right call, so I have no idea why you’re riding my ass so hard about this!”

“It’s the principle of the matter, Kaz, not the ‘rightness’ of it. You told Huey no without even asking me what I thought. I feel like we’ve been through something similar lately… you, making sweeping business decisions behind my back. It turned out badly last time.”

Kaz inhales sharply. He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from cussing Snake out. It doesn’t work - the moment he opens his mouth, it slips out anyway. “You… I can’t believe yo- you know what!? _Fuck you_ , Snake.” Kaz gropes the mattress until he finds his shades. He slips them on, grabs his clipboard and heads for the door. Snake stops him from leaving, because of course he does; and not like a normal person would stop him from leaving either - Snake grabs him in a CQC hold and pushes him up against the wall, bracing his forearm against his jugular so that if he tries to jerk free, he’ll get strangled for his trouble.

“Why are you so angry right now?” Snake asks calmly.

Kaz grounds his teeth together. “Because you’re talking to me like I’m a goddamn kid.” 

“I don’t think you’re a kid, Kaz, but you really need to stop and _think_ once in awhile, instead of-” Snake actually trails off when he sees the look Kaz is giving him from beneath his shades.

“Instead of _what_?” Kaz hisses.

Snake eases up the pressure of his neck. He tips his head - eye narrowed - to examine Kaz’s face more carefully. “Kaz, you -”

Kaz headbutts him before he can say anything stupid. Snake doesn’t stumble far enough back for there to be room to throw a punch, so Kaz knees him in the gut instead. A brief scuffle ensues in which Kaz completely embarrasses himself: Snake is still in his mission mindset, and Kaz hasn’t been awake long enough to have the reflexes to counter the flip that lands him on his back. Snake lifts him up by the front of his uniform and slams him against the wall again. This time, he pins his arms down to keep him still.

“Kaz,” he says, tone infuriatingly patient. “There’s no reason to rebel against me like this.”

“ _What_?”

“That’s what was going with Cipher, wasn’t it? You were too impatient to try to change my mind, so you went behind my back to get what you wanted. Kaz - I wouldn’t give you so much free rein if I didn’t think you were good at what you do, if I didn’t _trust_ you. But it’s difficult for me to trust you if you keep treating business decisions like contests that can be won, especially _now_.”

“Oh, I _see_ -” Kaz snarls. “First you’re my boss, now you’re my psychologist.”

“No,” Snake says softly. “I’m your _friend_.”

And there it is! The absolute absurdity of that statement hits Kaz right in the goddamn funny-bone. He starts laughing - _ordering me around, condescending to me, pressing bruises into my arms and neck, making sure that I remember my fucking place… and he calls himself my friend!_

Kaz can’t believe that just five minutes ago he was feeling heart-palpitations of fondness for this man, that five _seconds_ ago he was so mad that he would have torn out Snake’s throat given the chance. There’s a fine line that he walks every day of his life: the very narrow margin between _“there is nowhere else I’d rather be”_ and _“I have no choice but to be here; otherwise I’d be dead.”_ Kaz has gotten so good at balancing the tightrope that sometimes he tricks himself into thinking that he’s got both feet planted on solid ground. Right now he feels trapped, pinned, weirdly _elated_ \- it’s always so confusing, when he pulls back far enough to see the strings Big Boss has got hooked into him.

Snake’s grip loosens in response to Kaz’s half-hysterical cackling. The moment he drops his hands, Kaz snares his fingers in the waist of his pants and yanks him back. He mashes their mouths together - no finesse, just physicality. He wouldn’t dare kiss anyone but Big Boss with this little artifice, but this is the only kind of thing Snake really responds to. You can’t give yourself to Big Boss in bits and pieces - he demands the whole package up front.

“Kaz,” Snake starts to say something, but Kaz kisses him again, bites his lip this time. “ _Kaz_ ,” Snake tries again. “Kaz, we’re not done talking-”

“Snake…” Kaz wraps his arms around Snake’s neck and cages him in. He puts his mouth close to Snake’s ear and whispers: “Shut _the hell up_.” 

 

[a tape found amongst K. Miller’s dropped belongings after he was captured by the Red Army in Afghanistan, 1984. retrieved by REDACTED]

SIDE A: [several recordings of an acoustic guitar song, at various states of revision. some recordings are overlaid with a theremin and/or a young girl humming along]

SIDE B: [K. Miller speaking in Japanese. rough translation incld.]

“I have this dream sometimes that you come for me.

Instead of getting a call from [english] “Ocelot” [/english], I wake up in the middle of the night with your hand over my mouth and you holding me down so I don’t overreact. And I do overreact. I don’t trust anything anymore - I’m not sure that I’d even trust your face if I saw it. 

But then you call me by my name, and I calm down because _your voice_... no matter what happens I’ll always trust your voice.

I -”

[tape skips, this part was recorded over. he begins again.]

“I realized what this sounds like.

It’s not like that.

You call me by my name and then you light a cigar and you tell me: ‘It’s time. I’ve come back to make everything right. Get your gun, Kaz, we’ve got work to do.’

When I look at you, I can see that you are surrounded by light*-”

[*speaker uses a japanese idiom here that is difficult to translate literally. the idea is to achieve enlightenment and see the full truth of something “all of a sudden”.]

[tape skips again.]

“I lied, it is like that. It’s a little like that.

I know it’s not like me. Don’t expect me to be all [this metaphor is impossible to translate. the closest english idiom is _“Wine, Roses and that Jazz”_ ].

I dream that you push me back down and we [fuck] the way you always want to - slow, you know - like it _matters_. You ask me if I would help you burn the world down. I laugh because it’s funny - that’s exactly what I wanted to hear you say. Of course, because it’s my dream.

I tell you not to worry. I would follow you anywhere. I would do anything for you. And not because you’re [in english] “Big Boss” [/end english]. I’ll do it because you’re [ _Snake_ ].

After what they did to us, I’ve got nothing left - except you, [Snake], and what I know what you’re capable of. What _we’re_ capable of when we work together. 

You’re my home, the only home I’ve got left. I know that you’re just as lost as I am. As long as we’re together, we can build it again. We can get it all back. I’ll be your home too. I’ll -”

[skip]

“I know it’s my fault.”

[skip]

“When it’s all over I finally get the call from Ocelot.

He tells me that you died on the table in Zero’s secret hospital. I realize that I’m in bed with a ghost, and you’ve come to take me with you to hell.

I could fight back. All I have to do is renounce you. All I have to do is wake up. But I don’t.

In the morning, the squad - what’s left of the [english] MSF [/english] - comes to find me. My body is entwined with your skeleton*.

[*speaker is making reference to a famous _kaidan_ about the consequences of having a relationship with a ghost.]

[skip.]

[in english] “Jesus Christ, was I ever _drunk_ when I recorded that.

I... I’ve gotta stop this. I -”

[skip.]

“But, well... I know you can’t speak Japanese for shit, Boss, so if you wanna find out how I really felt, heh, I guess you have some studying to do.

But Boss I... 

... y’know, despite everything... I missed you. I miss you. I think about you every goddamn day and...

... well, not all of it’s good.

But still I... 

[skip]

”Shit. _Nevermind _.”__

[muttering to self] I’m gonna erase this tomor-.”

[CLICK]

**1996**

Kaz drifts awake to the sound of helicopter blades slowing. The flight from Chechnya to Zanzibar Land’s Command base in Tselinoyarsk isn’t particularly long, but Kaz has had a _rough_ fourty-six hours. He wasn’t certain what he expected to find waiting for him in Zanzibar Land, but he sure as hell hadn’t been prepared to find Big Boss fighting a goddamn war. He’d spent the last three months just playing catch-up; it feels like he’s slept maybe twice since his plane touched down in the Ukraine in January.

 _“The people asked me to help,”_ Snake explained in his defense, with a literal twinkle in his eye like he was Santa Claus: bringing the freedom of autonomous military rule to the children.

Kaz has no doubt that he was asked to fend off the CIS’s attempts to reabsorb Tselinoyarsk back into the various ex-Soviet nations that it bordered, but he wasn’t so positive that the civilians who’d issued the plea understood what they were getting into when they’d implicitly enlisted Big Boss and his army of misfit Black Ops orphans to defend them. What Kaz wanted to say to him was: _Boss, a lot of people ask you to do a lot of things for them. You don’t always have to take advantage of that._

What he actually said was: _Well, okay, what do you need me to do?_

“You alright back there Commander?” Pequod calls from the cockpit. Kaz tips up his sunglasses and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. Pequod is one of the only survivors of the original Diamond Dogs, alive mostly thanks to his ability to keep his damn mouth about shit that doesn’t involve him. Kaz gets the feeling sometimes that Pequod drinks a bit too much on his off-hours, like he thinks more about what went down in Outer Heaven than he lets on. That when he looks at Big Boss, he’s always searching for the ghost of a horn, for scars that have never been there. Kaz doesn’t feel too bad about it. It’s nice to have a pilot around who’s firmly on _his_ paycheque, a man who won’t blab to Snake when Kaz doesn’t take _exactly_ the route he promised.

“ETA?” Kaz asks groggily.

“We’re nearly at the LZ, Commander. Just a few minutes, so you’d better rise and shine.”

Kaz sighs and slings his satchel over one shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, I’m up. Thanks, Pequod.”

As they circle the LZ, Kaz is surprised to see that Big Boss is actually waiting for him on the platform. Snake had been out on the Kazakh border running an Operation when Kaz left for his business trip and shouldn’t have been back for another week at least. Kaz feels his heart clench up, like cold fingers squeezing it tight. He swallows down the feeling before it can become genuine panic and puts on his professional face. Big Boss looks pleased to see him, so it’s a good bet that he has no idea what Kaz actually did in Chechnya yet.

Snake comes to meet him as the chopper touches down. He doesn’t move to help Kaz dismount the palette, which is fine; better than fine, really - Kaz lost his taste for that sort of closeness in the 80s. 

“Hey, Boss -” he gives Snake an ironic little half salute and asks: “what happened in Kazakhstan?”

Big Boss is rolling a charred cigar nub between two fingers, waiting for Pequod to take the chopper up again before he speaks. “It’s under control,” he says simply.

“Really? That was fast.”

Snake turns and jerks his chin, signalling for Kaz to follow him. The helicopter pad is a temporary one: built on a high clearing a ten minute walk from the main compound. Fighting a war on five fronts means that there’s not a whole lot of man-power left to clear the tempestuous jungle terrain back home. The best they’ve been able to do is hack a narrow path through the thick underbrush.

“Opposite of ‘fast’, actually. We’re digging in at the mountain base long-term. I left the Operation in good hands. Remember that ex-Spetsnaz who defected to us in November?”

Kaz has met him once or twice. Big Russian guy, kinda anti-social. “The grenadier?”

Big Boss nods. “He knows the area well. Has experience with asymmetrical warfare. Was mentored by an old Finnish veteran when he was young.”

“A _Fin_ ,” Kaz exclaims, “willingly training a _Russian_ in guerilla warfare? It really is a whole new world out there.”

“Well - our man’s actually Estonian. Ended up in the Spetsnaz because there was nowhere else for someone with his skills to make a living, but there’s a reason he defected. Now that his homeland’s free, he owes Russia nothing.”

“He never owed Russia anything,” Kaz mutters, raising his head so that he can admire the tall spire of the Zanzibar Tower building - half finished, but already a monolith dominating the skyline.

Big Boss hums in agreement. “Well, he knows that now. That’s why he’s with us.”

They walk together - shoulder to shoulder - through the construction site. It’s mostly empty this late in the evening, but the few men still hammering away at their stations stop to salute them as they pass. There are over a hundred languages represented in the Zanzibar Land Free Forces, but every single man here knows the English word ‘Boss’.

As they cross beneath the support beams of the unfinished tower, Snake chuckles. Kaz shoots him a curious look over the top of his aviators.

“What’s so funny?”

“Still not quite used to having you around again like this.”

Kaz quirks an eyebrow. “Define ‘ _like this_ ’, Boss.”

Snake waves his hand, gestures to the jungle canopy fracturing the fading sunlight above them. “Not that I’m dwelling on the past, but this is kind of nostalgic. I always thought you looked most _right_ in the middle of a jungle. It suits you, better than the four walls of an office ever have. You may have an accountant’s mind, Kaz, but you’ve got the soul of a guerilla fighter.”

Kaz can’t help but let out a real laugh at that, even though he’s far too old to be susceptible to even _this_ kind of sweet-talk anymore. “Yeah -” he jabs Snake lightly with the elbow of his crutch. “I’ve always thought you looked most at home in a jungle too: unwashed, unshaven and covered head to toe in shit.”

“ _Kaz_ -”

“But you’re right, Boss: this really is where I belong.” _Not cooped up in an office. Not even here, specifically. But two steps behind you, always_. It’s something he forgets when he’s been away for too long. He feels young again just hearing Big Boss laughing at his own shitty metaphors.

They enter the Compound as the fog begins rolling in. Hazy nights always remind Kaz simultaneously of Costa Rica and Washington; even worse, the damp air crawls right into the marrow of his bones and stirs up the ghost of his phantom limb syndrome. He shivers a bit as they pass through a cloud of mist, imagining that he can feel the moisture clinging to the spaces between his aching joints. He’s grateful when Snake corrals him into HQ’s back door and leads him towards the elevator. 

_Well, we’re taking care of business right away, I see_. As they approach the Command Office, Kaz bites the inside of his mouth to keep his breathing even. It’s better if he approaches this kind of thing with an almost _oblivious_ veneer of confidence. Snake knows him well enough that it’s not gonna fool him, but Big Boss is more and more like a predator animal these days - you can escape with your throat intact as long as you don’t show weakness. Big Boss is completely silent as he unlocks the door and flicks the light on. Kaz lingers in the doorway and watches Snake shrug out of his beret and jacket, admiring the way the fatigues frame his broad figure - his wide chest, his trim waist, his _giant fucking_ arms…

 _Oh shit_. When Big Boss turns back to look at him, his demeanour has changed entirely. He - _very slowly_ \- leans against the desk and crosses his arms, his one eye glinting as he stares Kaz down. It feels like the temperature has dropped ten degrees in the room. 

“Tell me what happened in Chechnya, Kaz,” he says, voice all bristle-hard like it gets when he speaks _real_ low.

“Sounds like you already know.”

“I do. But I want to hear it from you. I want you to explain yourself.”

Kaz slams the door shut behind him and strides across the room confidently. He pulls a stack of paperwork from his satchel and slaps it down on Big Boss’s desk.

“I arranged for the Chechen rebels to make a trade route with the _Vor v Zakone_ through our territory like they wanted,” he says. “We’ll get a 10% profit cut from the _Vor v_ and the Chechens are gonna pay us in big guns - they’re only looking for concealable weapons at the moment, so any heavy artillery that passes through belongs to us.”

Big Boss frowns. “ _Kaz_ …” he growls, flexing his fingers, “I thought I told you not to do that.” Kaz has to steel himself from flinching at the sound of his name said like _that_. 

“When I brought the proposal to you, I was just being polite. I wanted to make sure we both knew the score. The deal was already in motion - I thought I’d made that clear.”

“I don’t like dealing with criminal organizations. They always give a little bit more than they take, so that they have insurance to blackmail you with later. We can’t afford to get mixed up with dirty deals like that.”

“You think I didn’t account for that?” Kaz barks out a short laugh and brushes back his hair. “ _Boss_ , who the hell do you think I am?”

“That’s a good question, Kaz. Who the hell _do_ you think you are?”

They stare at each other a moment. Kaz looks away first. “Boss - this is really our only option, unless you wanna uproot. The CIS combined forces are gonna flush us out of the jungle on our eastern border any day now if we don’t get our hands on something big.”

“Kaz...”

“Additionally, we need the money bad. You wanna hire the locals to do some farming? Help clear the forest? Well, we need to pay them.”

“ _Kaz_ -”

“I know you’re okay with pulling back - temporarily ceding some of the empty land near Pakistan - but since I arranged this deal, we don’t _have_ to. We get what we want, and the Chechen rebels get to fight the Russians with their own guns - everyone wins. It’s almost _poetic_.”

“Are you just going to keep talking?”

“Listen -” Kaz taps his fingers on the paperwork for emphasis. “We need weapons. And where would we have gotten the weapons, Boss, if we didn’t deal with them?”

“We would have done the same thing we always do - we would have done it ourselves. You think we couldn’t have salvaged the situation?”

Kaz sighs, shaking his head. “How did you make it to sixty still this naive? We’ve _never_ done it ‘ourselves’. I’ve always kept my thumb in every pie I could get my greedy little hands in. Where do you think we got the Outer Heaven money, huh?” He steps back and sweeps his cane around the room to demonstrate his point - to remind Snake that despite everything, he’d built his current legacy on Kaz’s “dirty” money.

“- I made bad deals with racists and warlords and bilked them blind when the bill came round. This is the same thing. It’s the same thing I did in South America. It’s the same thing I did in Africa. It’s the same thing I always do.” - and because he’s not looking to have a long argument about it, Kaz heads for the door. He’s said his piece - Snake can follow him if he wants to fight about it.

Instead, Big Boss steps behind the desk and eases down into his chair. It creaks beneath his weight. “Mmm hmm. And that’s justification in your mind?”

Kaz yanks the door open. “Heh - well, you know what they say, Boss,” he retorts flippantly. “Always better to beg forgiveness than ask permission!” He’s chuckling as he says it, so he’s not prepared for the cold, steel edge with which Big Boss calls him back into the room.

“Go ahead, then.”

Kaz freezes in the doorway, his satchel digging a painfully into the upper ridges of his ribs. _Is he serious_? “Boss -”

“Close the door, Kaz.”

Kaz does as he’s told because there is a blade of genuine anger beneath Snake’s sheath of practiced calm. When Kaz’s hand falls away from the door handle, its trembling - from adrenaline, more than any sort of fear. Kaz has always been the one with a temper, not Snake - when the Boss actually gets mad about something, things get… interesting. _Besides_ , Kaz tells himself, _what can he do to me at this point that’s any worse than what he’s already done_?

With that thought steadying him, Kaz is able to turn and face Snake without an inch of contriteness. “Okay, Boss, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I was going to do it either way.”

“That’s quite the weasel worded apology, Master Miller.”

“I’m not sorry that I did it, so I’m not gonna apologize for that. But… I regret that I had to go behind your back. I apologize for not being more... forthright.”

“Yeah. That’s caused problems in the past.”

Kaz winces. _Touche, Boss_.

Big Boss opens his cigar box with as much pomp and circumstance as possible. He traces the fading inscription along the edge slowly before popping the top and rolling out a fat, expensive Havana. Even when they were sitting on all the Diamond Dogs money in the early 90’s, this is the only thing Big Boss has ever treated himself to. Every cent they make goes towards the Revolution. 

Snake clips the cigar between his teeth and spits the end across the room so that it lands at Kaz’s feet. “Apology not accepted,” he says as he clicks his zippo on. It doesn’t light on the first try, as usual.

“What are you going to do?” Kaz asks snidely. “Choke me out?”

“Come on, Kaz. No need to be like that,” Snake’s voice rumbles around the circumference of his cigar. “It’s easy: all I want is for you to beg forgiveness.”

The zippo ignites after the sixth crack. Snake inhales deep, exhales a hazy puff of smoke with shuddering borders. He lifts his chin, like he’s inviting Kaz to a friendly fist fight. Kaz would rather have a fist fight, honestly - like when they were young and stupid. Things always seemed so fresh and new between them after they’d beat each other black and blue. That’s not really been an option since he lost his arm, however. 

Kaz swallows down a well of familiar anger. _Calm down, Kazuhira_ , he tells himself. Snake has a right to be angry - Kaz knew that this would be his reaction. Was counting on it, honestly. All he has to do is weather this storm; a pithy price to pay to do his goddamn job unfettered.

“Okay,” Kaz says. He crosses the room slowly, carefully - the off-beat of his cane clanging like a bell in the suffocating atmosphere of the small office. Big Boss spins his chair around to meet him as he rounds the desk. Kaz lets his satchel and cane fall to the floor, then he drops to his knees.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t get excited. I’m not down here to suck you off,” Kaz drawls. He pauses, then adds - hopefully: “unless you want me to…?”

Big Boss frowns. “The idea is for you to show humility. Why would I let you do something you take such obvious pride in?”

Kaz curses under his breath at the missed opportunity. Big Boss isn’t wrong - a demeaning blow job would be preferable to what he’s actually about to do. 

He takes a deep breath and eases into position to sit _seiza_. He can feel a violent flush heating his face as he slowly lowers himself into a seated _saikeirei_ bow. His form is clumsy - for one thing, he only has one arm, for another thing, he hasn’t done this since he was _sixteen_ years old. Lessons drilled in at a young age last a lifetime. His forehead doesn’t quite hit the floor, but it’s close enough that he can feel the chill stored in the hewn stone radiating against his skin. He counts the seconds out between breaths - _one, two, three, four_ \- and manages to resist glancing at Snake as he pulls himself to his knees again. He stares carefully and politely at the wall, like the nice little Japanese boy he never quite managed to be.

“Hn,” Snake says thoughtfully. “Not good enough.”

Kaz finally lets his temper flare. He grits his teeth, but admirably manages to maintain eye contact with the wall. “You know, Snake, where I’m from it’s basically not possible express humility more dramatically than this, short of killing yourself.”

“Where you’re from… a nation that still hasn’t apologized for any of the atrocities they committed in the war. You want me to accept that currency?”

“ _What_ -”

“Grand gestures help save face, Kaz, but uneducated Americans like me need words to understand things.”

Kaz honestly can’t believe that Snake is being this _consciously ignorant_ , this _inflammatory_ , especially since it’s not something he even gives a shit about personally so he’s only doing it to rub salt in a wound, to show how easy Kaz is to goad even after all these years. Kaz curls his lip, but keeps staring ahead.

“If you’re that concerned with sincerity, why don’t you just do the _American_ thing and kick in my kneecap so I have no choice but to bow?”

Big Boss actually laughs. _Oh fuck you_ , Kaz thinks. _Don’t you dare laugh at my jokes right now_. 

Snake crosses one leg over the other and thrusts his foot forward so that it nudges up under Kaz’s chin, forcing him to look up. “If we’re going to go with American style humiliation, why don’t you kiss my boots?”

Kaz forces a crooked grin, showing his teeth. “So you _are_ getting off on this.”

Big Boss shoves the toe of his boot into Kaz’s mouth to stop him from talking. Kaz coughs around it, pulls back to keep himself from swallowing a clump of moss. The taste of dirt is mostly invisible, sterile - it’s the sour sting of new boot leather that really roils Kaz’s gut. He grabs the boot, twists his hand to grasp either side of the sole so that he has a better angle to approach from. Fine - if this is how Snake wants it, he’ll lick his damn boots mirror-clean.

He gets a start by dragging his lips over the arch of the boot’s toe: measured, deliberate, _tender_. Snake makes a disapproving noise and taps a bit of ash onto his head. “You’re kissing my boot the way you kiss women, Kaz. Kiss it like you kiss me.”

Kaz rolls up all the dirt in his mouth and spits it out. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.”

Yeah, he does. _Don’t kiss my boot like you’re trying to impress it. Kiss my boot like it’s the only thing that you see_. Kaz takes a deep breath before approaching the problem a second time. He’s so focused on how he’s going to lap up the mud in a convincing and satisfactory manner - starts lapping it up with forced zeal - that he’s not prepared for it when Big Boss yanks the boot away, and then pulls back to kick him in the face. The blow sends him reeling; his head gets knocked so hard against the desk that his sunglasses go flying. Big Boss stops him from crumpling to the floor by grabbing a handful of his hair.

“Kaz - you would really rather lick my boot than apologize to me?.”

Kaz can’t answer because his mouth is full of dirt and blood. Big Boss twists the grip on his hair, eliciting a foamy, pained groan from between his split lips.

“It’s three easy words, Kaz: ‘ _Please, forgive me’_.”

Kaz spits, but doesn’t quite make the goal of Snake’s face. The blood and spittle lands on the collar of his uniform. “Fuck you. I’m not… apologizing when… I was… right…”

“You probably were right, but that’s not what I’m angry about. And it’s not what you’re angry about either. What’s really going on here?”

 _Are you fucking seriou_ \- Kaz gathers his thoughts and tries to breathe through the pain. “Boss,” he says, a little nasal and worn out. “Boss, come… come down here and I’ll… tell you…”

Snake falls for it. He leans over and pulls Kaz close. Close enough that this time when Kaz spits, it nearly gets in his eye. A bit of it drips down into his beard, staining the white hairs bright red. Snake doesn’t react immediately. He keeps his grip on Kaz’s hair firm and grounds out his cigar on the edge of the table. He wipes the blood-flecked spit from his face. Then he calmly lifts Kaz all the way to his feet by his hair. He’s practiced enough at this that he manages to avoid ripping any of it out, however the pressure is beginning to give Kaz tension headache. It’s almost a relief when Snake spins him around and throws him over the desk, bringing an arm up around his neck.

“This is about the children, isn’t it?” Big Boss asks. Kaz recognizes this tone of voice -he used to hear it every day over the radio, directed at other people. He’s being _interrogated_.

“Jesus, Boss, we had that argument a month ago. You think I’m still mad about it?”

“Yes,” Big Boss answers easily.

Kaz laughs - or tries to, at least. It’s hard to laugh with an arm clamped around your throat. “Well, I was _right_ about that one too.”

“Kaz, you don’t know the first thing about what those children have been through. What they’ve seen.”

“I think I know a thing or two about it.”

“And I think that you have an ulterior motive.”

“Oh, like you _don’t_ have any ulterior mo -”

Kaz is interrupted by the sharp and sudden sound of someone clearing their throat. He and Snake both look up, shocked that someone managed to enter the room without them noticing. Snake - when he sees who it is - does not loosen his grip on Kaz’s neck.

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” says Gray Fox. Of course - who else could it be? The man looks and moves like a ghost. “Boss - we need to talk about tomorrow’s diversionary operation.”

Kaz isn’t prepared for how carelessly Big Boss drops him; he doesn’t get his arm under his body in time and hits the desk hard chin first. He welcomes the long slump towards the floor - when he gets all the way there, he lays down and puts his hand over his eyes to shield them from the searing brightness of the overhead fluorescent lights. He only half listens to Fox and Snake’s conversation. His blood is still thrumming loud in his ears from the adrenaline, the anger and the pain.

“Of course. But first, Frank, could I get your opinion on an argument between the Commander and I?”

“... sir?”

“Commander Miller wants to take on multiple factory contracts - run them through dummy companies - and send the kids to work in them.”

“Sweatshops,” Fox says matter-of-factly.

“Yes. He used a lot of euphemisms at the time, but that’s essentially what he’s proposing.”

Fox waits a beat before responding. He speaks gingerly when he does answer. “... as long as we set high standards for the work conditions and keep reasonable hours, I don’t actually see the harm.”

“I’m surprised to hear you, of all people, say that.”

“We can’t give them a proper education, so it wouldn’t be a bad idea to teach them a few practical skills. Not all of them will spend their entire lives in Zanzibar Land.”

Kaz’s ears perk up and he turns his head towards the conversation. He can’t see any higher than their knees. Not that it matters - it isn’t like Gray Fox has more than one facial expression. Kaz gropes for anything in his tone, his word-choice, his stance, trying to figure out what Big Boss’ lieutenant gains by pretending to agree with him.

“Interesting perspective,” Big Boss muses. “Thank you Frank.”

“Yes.”

“Meet me in the Operations Room.” Big Boss exits the office without a single glance back. The resounding strike of his boot-heels echo down the hall as he stalks towards the elevator. Gray Fox lingers until the sound has disappeared, then he crosses the room and offers Kaz his hand.

“Commander Miller.”

Kaz squeezes his eyes shut and takes three deep breaths. “I don’t need your pity,” he hisses. When he opens his eyes again, Fox has withdrawn his hand. His expression is as glacial as usual, but his brows are furrowed just the slightest bit.

“It’s not pity, Kazuhira,” he says, and then he’s gone.

When he's certain that he's alone, Kaz drags himself to his feet. He pats himself down, assessing the damage: nose bleeding, but not broken. Gums bleeding too, but no cracked teeth. Bruises on his knees and elbow. Black eye, probably. He limps across the room to retrieve his aviators. Then he stares blankly at the ceiling and says, as if to convince himself it's true: "I'm getting too fucking old for this."

 

[CLICK]

[ringtone, fifteen seconds. the commander picks up to the sound of a cipher machine. he sighs.]

“- hey Boss.”

“Commander Miller.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“Closer than you expect.”

“Heh. We’ve got to stop meeting like this. What if someone _caught_ us.”

“Kaz. I don’t have long to talk. Make this quick - I’m calling about those Immigration Papers I delegated to you...”

“Mmm. Oh yeah. 

“Are they in order?”

“They’re in order, all right.”

“Kaz...?”

“Boss, let’s be real. We’re not helping that woman across the Iron Curtain.”

“Oh?”

“What does Jaeger think is going to happen? He brings a celebrity like Gustava Heffner state-side. He marries her. He plays house with her and that little girl who’s parents he killed? It’s a fantasy, Boss, doomed to failure. I’m not gonna help him construct a ridiculous fiction like that.”

“You make it sound like it’s for his own good.”

“It’s for hers as well - he’s going to ruin her life.”

“So this is philanthropy?”

“Heh. Oh, you know me Boss - I’m nothing if not charitable.”

“And...?”

“And... does he think that after all this... when we’re so close... does he think he can just go off and live a ‘normal life’? He doesn’t get to do that. No one walks away from Outer Heaven. Not anymore.”

“...”

“... Snake?”

“Hnh. You’re right of course. Arrived at the same conclusion myself.”

"Making the gesture out of respect for the work he's done for you?"

"Something like that."

“Well... in that case, I saved you the trouble.”

“Saved him the trouble too.”

[CLICK]

**1996**

It was easier than you’d expect to avoid Big Boss in his own nation if you really put some effort into it. Kaz has his own office in the basement of the central Compound, down where they store all the tapes and microfilm they haven’t had time to organize and categorize yet. He sometimes can’t stand to think of how much documentation they lost when Outer Heaven went down in flames, even though intellectually he knows that it’s best that they destroy their paper trail every few years, even though he’s the one who suggested they burn everything. He left FOXHOUND with a luggage case full of all the file folders and tapes Roy was dumb enough to let him get away with. The first thing he did before going to see David was wheel the entire thing into an industrial incinerator and watch it burn. He had to walk half an hour in the rain to wash the scent of smoke out of his clothes. He didn’t want David to ask any inconvenient questions. When he -

_\- when he went to see David..._

Kaz brushes his thumb over the half-healed split in his bottom lip. He -

 _Everyone likes to be treated nicely._

\- he honestly has been trying to do his best not to think about his last interaction with David. He’d really underestimated the kid’s ability to get an accurate read on people when he was stone cold sober. He should have brought a bottle of brandy with him along with DD. Maybe then...

_It’s a basic instinct to crave affection -_

… he wasn’t lying in his assessment to EVA. He really did think that David was uniquely self-possessed. Almost like… he felt everything so deeply that it all slid off him like teflon. He couldn’t let it in or it would destroy him, and that was something he seemed to understand about himself. Kaz wasn’t sure if he was attracted to that, or feverishly jealous. He-

_\- everyone and everything needs to be handled gently once in awhile._

\- he needed to talk to Big Boss. The Intel team has been on fire the last few days; most interesting bit of info was a harried missive from Doctor Drago Pettrovich Madnar, desperately seeking asylum from his former jailor. _Interesting_ , but not surprising… their armies had always been built on the backs of POW-turned-loyalists, a fact that Kazuhira Miller knew better than anyone. 

But with Dr. Madnar?… Kaz was skeptical. Something about Madnar rubbed him the wrong way: the persecution complex, the way he shrugged blame off, hid beneath layers of justification. Kaz had seen the zeal with which he built TX-55; Madnar reminded him more than a little bit of Huey Emmerich.

Kaz puts away his work, retrieves his cane and forges out into sunlight for the first time in nearly a week. He doesn’t go in search of Big Boss directly - instead, he looks for Frank Jaeger. He finds Fox hanging out near the swamp behind HQ, surrounded by a group of six children. Kaz takes his time approaching, admittedly curious about the taciturn soldier’s off-hours behaviour.

Fox is sitting on the root of a dead kapok tree, ankle braced on his knee while he shows the children how to carve wooden figures with a broad-bladed knife. Kaz instantly recognizes the shape of a Kokeshi doll - domed head, sloped, featureless body; the figure Fox is making is squatter than what Kaz is used to, with a wider head. It’s a style of Kokeshi popular in the Indochina peninsula. Kaz has long suspected that he and Fox had a few things in common besides their complicated loyalty to Big Boss. _Laos? Thailand… actually, considering where is he right now, probably Vietnam._

The yellow mid-morning light makes Fox’s paper-pale skin sallow, casts deep shadows beneath his high cheekbones and the cavern of his mutilated nose. Viewed from the wrong angle, his face is kind of monstrous, but the wayward orphans of Zanzibar Land follow him everywhere when they can find him. 

One of the kids twists their knife in the wrong direction and slices a few layers of skin off their thumb. Fox immediately sheaths his own blade and drops to his knees to help. Kaz can hear snippets of the conversation over the breeze.

“... salt or honey. Tree oil will disinfect it as well. Don’t put it in your mouth. Hold it to a clean part of your clothing. You nicked a vein, so it won’t stop bleeding on its own. Aneke - cut a bit of your skirt off. We’ll make a bandage.”

Kaz realizes that it’s a dual lesson - he’s teaching the children to be confident with their blades, and to not fear wounds. A soldier’s kindness is insidious. The girl Fox called to snaps to attention when he says her name and begins hacking at her skirt with an efficiency that makes Kaz a little sad to see in someone so young. She has an Afrikaans name and dark, tightly coiled hair - a survivor from Outer Heaven. Her hands are stained yellow, probably from handling Trinitrotoluene raw, another impoverished “half-breed” with no nation to call her own.

Kaz waits until the wounded boy is all wrapped up before making his presence known. He clangs his cane against the trunk of a short, squat tree, pulling attention from the entire group. He doesn’t have to worry about any of the children following after Fox - Commander Miller has a bad reputation as a curmudgeon who’ll assign work or - even worse - _reading_ assignments to any kid unfortunate to pass under his watchful gaze, unlike Big Boss who lets them run wild doing whatever the hell they want. 

Fox brushes grass off his knees as he rises and hands the wounded boy his finished Kokeshi doll before coming to meet Kaz. “Are you looking for Big Boss?” he wonders.

Kaz takes a moment to answer. He’s still staring at the kids, brandishing their blades the way American kids hold action figures and NERF guns.

“So…” Kaz begins conversationally, “you’d really send them to work in a sweatshop?”

Fox stares at Kaz, unblinking. “I understand what you’re trying to do, Commander Miller.”

“Do you, now.”

“Big Boss is content to let them get accustomed to the war machine, to become a part of it. You think there’s another way. I know what you tried to do at your base in Seychelles, and how it played out. You’re trying to be subtle this time.”

“Think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

Fox looks him up and down. It’s a quick assessment - like a wild dog searching for old wounds in their prey. He brushes his overlong bangs to one side as he glances back at the children. “I admire that you’re making an attempt, but Big Boss is right.”

Kaz furrows his brow. “Right about what?”

“Those children… they’ve already seen too much. Too much war. Too much of what humanity is capable of. There’s no way that they’ll ever be able to return to a normal life.”

“If you really believe that, why did you agree with me?”

Fox actually smiles - it’s a very faint expression, and a surprisingly gentle one. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with trying.” Then he says: “- and I thought that maybe you’d need to see it for yourself. To understand why you’re still here.”

A full-on chill runs down the length of Kaz’s spine at that. He takes a half-step back, physically recoiling from the aura that Jaeger is radiating. Kaz finally sees past his veneer, right through his preternatural calm, his translucent skin, right down to the crack that runs down the center of him. They all have a crack down the center of them, one that lets all the darkness in, one that they desperately try to fill with the feeling they get when Big Boss speaks to them.

Kaz stutters a bit over his next words. “J-just… just tell me where the hell Snake is. I need to talk to him, alright?”

Fox’s smiles doesn’t falter as he points Kaz in the right direction.

*

Big Boss is in the underground hanger.

He’s down in the pit, examining the “Junk”; the extant pieces - trophies and souvenirs really - from all of the Gears they’d built or taken down over the years... a bent piece of Sahelanthropus’ uranium armour, the railgun from Huey’s Battle Gear, ZEKE’s damaged black box and, of course, Peace Walker’s AI core. It’s the last one that Snake is standing in front of. Kaz pauses on the walkway for a moment and stares at him - his Boss, framed by his mentor’s second gravestone, Strangelove’s _coffin_ ; a symbol of things they’d lost, and things that they’d torn down and destroyed with their own hands.

“Kaz, there you are.” Big Boss greets him and holds out one of his gloved hands to wave him over. 

Kaz scoffs as he saunters up behind him. “You don’t get points for hearing my old, crippled ass sneak up behind you, Boss.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, actually.” Big Boss doesn’t look directly at him when Kaz comes to stand beside him. He curls a finger beneath his bearded chin, thoughtfully. “I’ve put in a requisition with Doctor Voskresensky to construct you some new prosthetics. Plural.”

Kaz blinks at Snake. “You… bought me bionic limbs?”

“You’ve been walking around wearing this false fragility like a badge for far too long. We’re entering a new era - I don’t want you dwelling on the past anymore.”

Kaz directs his eyes to the floor and wrenches his hand around the handle of his cane. Years ago, he would have been ecstatic about this gesture. Longer ago than that, he would have been insanely furious. Right now he feels… nothing, really. He wishes that he could feel violated to some degree - who is Snake to make this decision for him? But if Big Boss wants him whole, he can’t argue.

“Fine,” he says, glib. “But you know, I won’t be so easy to pick out like this if I start wearing better prosthetics."

“No,” Snake murmurs. “I always know when it’s you.”

Kaz drags his teeth along his wounded lip and says nothing. After a few minutes, Big Boss lets out a long, gravelly sigh. “... I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

“Don’t send me away,” Kaz replies firmly.

“Then what do I do with you?”

Kaz pushes up his shades so that he can rub the bridge of his nose. What indeed? “Boss - I’ll cancel the gun running deal.”

“Mmm hmm. What ever happened to _‘shit costs money’_?”

“There are other ways to get the money.”

That finally gets Snake to look at him.

“I’ve got… something up my sleeve,” Kaz says hesitantly. “But you’re gonna have to trust me.”

“ _Really_?”

“I know, I know - but it’s… it involves blackmailing someone who really deserves it. It’s a thread I’ve left hanging since my Diamond Dogs days. I just was never sure I wanted to pull the trigger on it.”

“That all you can tell me?”

Kaz nods. 

“Will you do it even if I tell you no?”

“If you’re gonna tell me no every time I give you a solution to a problem you can’t fix, I really wonder why you even bother with me, Boss.”

Snake takes a step towards him and grabs the empty arm of Kaz’s jacket - right above the knot - to pull him near. He stops Kaz from slipping his shades back on and stares at him intently - eye to _eyes_. Kaz stares back, trying his best to give nothing away.

“... okay,” Snake says, finally.

Kaz lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “That easy?”

“You’re not as good at lying to me as you think you are, Kaz. Whatever it is, I’ll find out eventually.”

“And then what?”

Snake grins - that old, familiar lopsided smile: half feral, half innocent. It’s a smile that always works on Kaz, no matter how many times he sees it, no matter how old they get. That grin cuts down to the core of who Big Boss is: a warrior king, a stray dog, the only person Kaz would ever willingly admit defeat to. Kaz closes the distance between them with a hungry kiss. He’s used to being rebuffed more often than not - especially with a lover on the wrong side of sixty - but Big Boss is obviously in a _mood_ today and responds so fiercely that it splits Kaz’s lip back open. Snake hooks his hands around Kaz’s waist and spins him around so that they’re leaning against the AI Pod, Kaz's arm pinned at the wrist by his head.

“And _then_ what?” Kaz asks again when they part, his voice more husky than he intended.

Big Boss nuzzles the soft skin beneath his ear and laughs. His deep chuckle is more a vibration than an actual sound. The reverb works its way deep into Kaz’s bones and makes him shiver in anticipation. “I guess we’ll wait and see, won’t we?”

It sounds more like an invitation than a threat.

**(Secret Recording of Donald Anderson and Kazuhira Miller )**

**AUDIO ONLY**

[CLICK]

“Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice.”

“Short notice? It’s been nearly a year since you first contacted me with this bullshit.”

“Don’t call it bullshit until you hear what I’m offering, _SIGINT_.”

[a beat of silence]

“So that’s how you’re going to play it. For a moment there, I thought this was going to be a civil exchange, _Kazuhira Miller_.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed that you know who I am? Unlike you, I’m _nobody_. I’m not even on the family register. I don’t have a birth certificate, let alone a fancy position high up in the US Government.”

“I’m not that petty. I just wanted to make sure we were on even ground.”

“We’ll never be on even ground, Anderson. Not when we’re standing on opposite sides of the only war that matters anymore.”

“Listen - you don’t know the first thing about me, or what my investment in this conflict is. You weren’t there, man. Don’t presume to have insider knowledge on what went down between us just because you got caught in the crossfire.”

“I know more than you think. I know that with Zero out of the picture, you think that you’re safe. I know that you’re not - you and Dr. Clark have been sitting cozy assuming that the hatchet got buried along with the Major, but as long as he’s still breathing, you’ve got a target on your chest. And I’m _real close_ with the man holding the trigger to that gun, so you might wanna listen to what I have to say.”

“.... go on then.”

“The PATRIOTS.”

“How do you-”

“- it’s an imperfect system. The woman who built it -”

“Yes.”

“We called her Doctor Strangelove. She worked for us before she worked for you. She had certain... regrets before the unfortunate circumstance of her death. I have proof of this, if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you.”

“Heh - having doubts yourself?”

“What would even be the point of having doubts after I’ve gone this far? I know who I am.”

“That’s what I thought. In that case, I thought you might be interested to know that before she took off, she left a... flaw in the system. An ‘egg’ is what she called it - a system destroying bug that could be ‘hatched’ if someone knew what they were looking for.”

“... if you’re telling the truth -”

“I am. I have her last will and testament - a bread-crumb trail that could lead a clever mind to find this ‘egg’ and crack it open before it has a chance to fester. The knowledge is way outside my skill base and, I'm betting, outside of yours. But there's a promising young man who just got an early scholarship to MIT this year who's got a fresh perspective on programming and a blood connection to the PATRIOTS... yeah, you've been keeping an eye on him too, I see.”

[both are silent for a while. when anderson speaks, he sounds almost panicked]

“Well then - if we’re going to do this, let’s do it.”

“Hey, hey... now that I know you _want_ it, the real conversation begins. I’m not gonna give something like this away for free.”

“Shit... you know, Zero always said that every time he talked to you, he felt like he needed a nice, long shower afterwards.”

“It’s funny that he of all people accused me of sleazy dealing. I learned a lot of my best tricks from him.”

“Okay, then. What’s the catch. I know there’s a catch - with your type, there always is.”

“This information is on an optical disk. The optical disk is sitting in a vault somewhere in one of my secure offshore account's safe-boxes. On this piece of paper is a PIN number that will open that safe-box for you. If I give you this number, you memorize it, then you let me watch you eat the paper its written on. And then you tell _no one_ about this meeting. I mean that literally. Now, the catch is that the safe-box only opens in the instance of my death. _And_ Big Boss’ death. ”

“You’re _that_ certain you won’t outlive him?”

[miller doesn’t answer]

“I see.”

[another protracted silence]

“... why would you give me something like this? You’re Big Boss’ right hand man. Why would you...?”

“You know how Zero adored Snake, but inevitably ended up fighting him? How Ocelot wanted to destroy him so much that it turned to unfaltering loyalty? Well, no one knows Snake better than me. I’ve lived in his pocket for twenty years now, right at his side. There’s no one who loves him like I do, so can you imagine how it is on the days that I remember what I felt like when the scales first fell from my eyes? Today’s one of those days. The day I contacted you to set up this meeting was too.”

“Goddamn...”

“So you see - it’s not really betrayal. If you ever see a day that you’ll be able to use this, both Big Boss and I will already be dead. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and since he’ll be dead, he’ll never know.”

[anderson sighs]

“Well then. How much do you want?”

[the sound of a pen scribbling]

“Shit... that much, really? You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Miller.”

“I do. But it’s a small price to pay for world peace, don’t you think?”

“... Jesus, Mary and _Joseph_ \- you’re a real asshole, you know that?”

“You might be surprised, but I don't actually hear that very often.”

[CLICK]


	8. [1979] Seville/[1997] Zanzibar Land

**1979**

He knocks on the hotel room door twice, but kind of half-heartedly. Half-heartedly enough that if she’s in the bathroom or on the balcony, he can totally ditch this whole stupid idea and head back to his own hovel of a hostel and… _and drink all this brandy myself I guess_ , Kaz thinks to himself sardonically, holding up the bottle of _Cardenal Mendoza_ \- aged fifteen years - he’d bought down the street. It’s a heavy, ornamental bottle; the liquor inside is almost the colour of fresh blood - not a brand Kaz would drink on his own time, but the clerk had promised him a complex and saccharine bouquet based on prunes, with a hint of toffee and cream sherry. With his luck, it would turn out to be Cécile’s least favourite kind of liqueur.

Kaz glances up and down the hall while he waits for her to answer, instinctively looking for the most efficient escape route. The only thing worse than her not answering at all is her answering to find him half way down the hall. He’s about to duck for the fire-escape when he hears the soft sound of footsteps padding along the carpet. He freezes in place, not sure what to do with his hands. What he decides to do is hide the bottle of brandy behind him - an action that he’s halfway through when the door creaks open to expose a sliver of Cécile Cosima Caminades’ flawless, doll-like face.

“ _Sí? ¿Cómo puedo ay_ -” she stops short when she recognizes him. Her eyes go wide and her mouth falls open - like she’s seen a ghost. “... _Monsieur_ Miller!?”

Kaz runs a hand through his hair and tries to smile the way he used to. “Er, hey Cécile. Long time no see, huh?”

She pulls the door open the rest of the way. She’s dressed in a silk bathrobe, cream-coloured and embroidered with pink lilies. It’s fallen open a bit to reveal a rather extravagant négligée: lace cups, ribbon at the waist, a skirt made of material so sheer the outline of her underwear is visible through the pleats. If it were any other woman, Kaz would ask if she was expecting company; with Cécile, somehow he’s not surprised that she spends her free time lounging around looking like a Victoria’s Secret model. A way to unwind and relax from a profession that usually saw her dressed down in worn-out khakis.

Kaz clears his throat and politely averts his eyes. Cécile seems to remember herself. Blushing, she rushes to tie the front of her robe closed. When she raises her face again, her expression has morphed from shocked to skeptical. “ _Monsieur Miller_ ,” she says again, slower this time, relishing the way the ‘r’s trill beneath the weight of her thick french accent. “How ever did you find me?”

“Well, I was in the city and I saw that you were part of an academic delegation giving a talk at the University of Seville so I, I uh -” it sounds creepier out loud, he realizes, “- I still have a spy network, and I… had them track you down so that we… could…”

He trails off when he realizes that she’s staring at the arm that’s still behind his back. Sheepishly, he pulls out the liquor bottle and gives it a festive little shake. Cécile raises an eyebrow and purses her lips.

“So we could _what_ , Monsieur Miller?”

“Hey - i-it’s, it’s not what it looks like.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Look - I know what I’ve been like in the past, but honest Cécile, I just thought that you would…”

She crosses her arms and stares at him. Kaz bites his lip because this is the hard part.

“I just thought that you would… like to know what happened…”

Cécile relaxes her arms. Her expression unknots and she raises one hand to tug at a lock of her long, blonde hair.

“- what happened… after the MSF -”

 _Oui_ ,” she begins nodding. “ _Ou_ \- Yes - I want to -”

“- and to hear about that,” Kaz interrupts, holding up the brandy again. “You’re gonna want to be more than a little drunk.”

She lets him in.

*

Cécile does not _disapprove_ of the brandy.

They crack the bottle open and sit at opposite ends of the lush hotel room’s fancy, antique sofa. Kaz is very aware of the foot and a half of space between them, and of the way Cécile’s bathrobe rides up to expose her smooth, sun-kissed thighs as she tucks one leg beneath her. He runs a hand along the fading scars on his jawline, almost subconsciously.

“It’s no _Armagnac_ ,” she grouses, scrunching up her nose. “but... not bad at all. You were always such a _boor_ , Miller, I suppose this is the first time you’ve set hands on such a fine brandy.” 

“Yeah,” Kaz admits, “I usually drink beer or whiskey.”

“Mm, really? What brand of whiskey?”

Kaz takes a deep breath and knocks back his first shot. He swallows without wincing - it's got a punch to it all right, but he’s accustomed to the burn of hard liquor these days. “The cheapest I can get,” he answers, pouring out another shot for them both. She watches him, her expression softening with both sympathy and pity. Their fingers brush as he hands her the shot glass.

“... whatever became of Paz?” she asks in a very small voice.

“How honest do you want me to be you, Cécile?”

Cécile rolls her teeth over her bottom lip. Her slim fingers shudder almost imperceptibly around her shot glass. She’s not taking the decision lightly. Finally, she says: “please, Monsieur Miller. I want to hear everything.”

“You sure about that?”

“I may be a civilian, but I was your comrade, _oui_? Don’t I deserve the whole truth?”

Kaz sighs. He runs his hand over his eyes, beneath his aviators. It hurts to think about Paz, about Camp Zero, about what went down in that helicopter. “We… we went back for her,” he explains, leaving out the part where they weren’t exactly _rescuing_ her. “But she… didn’t make it.”

“Despite what she did, I always felt a great deal for her. She was a very sad girl. I hope that her death was not too…” Cécile casts around for an english word to express what she means. “I hope she did not die painfully.”

“She did,” Kaz says darkly. Cécile presses her eyes shut and takes her shot of brandy. It goes down a lot easier than the first. Kaz follows suit.

Cécile gropes for the bottle; this time, she’s the one who fills the glasses. “Amanda?”

“Amanda’s fine. Still fighting Somoza. But -”

“Chico?”

Kaz shakes his head. Cécile takes another shot.

“If you’re gonna take one for everyone who’s died,” Kaz warns her, “we’re gonna end this night in the hospital.”

Cécile smacks his knee as she dips down to grab the bottle. “Do not condescend to me, you _phallocrate_! I can take care of myself.” 

Kaz pulls back and raises his hands defensively. “Woah, okay there. Didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t.” 

Cécile snorts delicately and drinks her shot of brandy. She thrusts the empty shot glass in his face. “What happened to Chico?” she demands.

Kaz tells her. About everything - sparing only the most absolutely gruesome details. About Chico’s attempted heroism, about how Paz hadn’t sold them out in the end, about how Huey _had_ … Cécile processes it in near silence, nursing her brandy shot and massaging a lock of golden hair between her thumb and forefinger. Her fingernails are blunt, practical, but she is sporting a perfect french manicure.

“... what happened to… his _nom de guerre_ was Morpho, I believe?”

“Our pilot?”

“ _Oui_. He was training me how to fly the _‘Crocodile’_.”

Kaz shakes his head.

Cécile takes a shot. “What about… Mosquito? He was Cuban, I believe? Lovely singing voice?”

“Dead,” Kaz says, regretfully. He and Mosquito often performed old hit songs from the 50s and 60s together at the monthly birthday parties. Kaz takes a shot with Cécile this time.

They go on in this fashion for some time, Cécile asking after MSF members she’d gotten to know, mostly from the Intel team, or women. A few of the R&D staff who worked under Strangelove. They get over halfway into the bottle when Kaz notices that his head is swimming. This is how he’s always gotten drunk - all at once, after having downed so much liquor that it’s already too late to salvage the situation. Cécile is swaying a little in her seat, but she is still poised, straight-backed, lucid.

Kaz shrugs his coat off finally, feeling too flushed and heated from the booze to stand the way it traps the humidity of a balmy, Spanish evening. Cécile’s gaze follows the motion of the coat as it slides off his arms and gets thrown over the back of the sofa. Her eyes narrow and Kaz realizes that she recognizes it - it’s a ratty old leather thing, slightly too short for Kaz in the arms, and a bit too wide in the shoulders. She twists her shot glass between her fingers and Kaz feels himself shrink beneath her discerning gaze - those piercing, blue eyes are used to searching for subtle patterns in dense foliage; they don’t miss anything. 

“You haven’t asked about…” Kaz trails off. He really doesn’t want her to ask about him. Cécile snatches Kaz’s empty shot glass from him and places it on the coffee table just out of his reach. She helps herself to another shot, however.

“Tell me then,” she holds her drink aloft, steeling herself for more tragic news. “What happened to Snake?”

“Not dead,” Kaz glances away. “But I haven’t seen him in…” _one thousand five hundred fourteen days since the MSF went down_ \- “... four years.”

“Surely he did not leave you behind?”

Kaz shakes his head. “He’s… he survived the explosion, but he’s in a coma. Was in a coma, at least, last time I checked. Zer - the _man_ who hired Paz took him. Keeping him in some top secret hospital to hide him from the people who burned the MSF, but I-”

“ _Monsieur_ Miller?”

It’s not until Cécile cuts him off that Kaz realizes that his hands are trembling, that a dangerous shudder has worked its way into his voice. He always had such a good cap on his temper, back before Cipher fucked them over. Cécile’s never seen him angry; she seems distressed at how tightly he’s clenched his left hand into a fist, tight enough the veins are bulging out from the skin. He shuts his eyes and inhales a steadying breath. He flexes his hand open and spreads it over his knee. 

“I haven’t seen him. I’m not allowed to see him. Not until he wakes up.”

“I have heard that sometimes people do not wake up from comas,” Cécile says. Kaz opens his eyes and makes himself smile. He hopes that the expression is not too bitter.

“Yeah, well, Snake’s gonna wake up. I believe that’s true.” _Don’t believe in God; believe in Big Boss. At least his retribution is real, and_ always _earned_.

“And you… you are waiting for him?”

It sounds so hokey when Cécile says it out loud. Kaz slumps in his seat and shrugs. “What else am I gonna do?”

Cécile twists her lip, examining Kaz as if he’s a particularly interesting species of bird. “This is, I admit, a different side of you. To think that someone who plays themselves off as such a shallow _coureur de jupons_ would hold a torch like this for nearly five years.”

Kaz is drunk enough that it takes him a few seconds to fully process through that entire statement. The different parts of it light up in his brain in the wrong order, almost like his mind is trying very hard not to make sense of it, retain some sort of plausible deniability. “Ce-Cécile,” he stammers, “I think that you’re misusing that english phrase...”

“ _Non, non_ \- I do believe that I have used it correctly. You are in mourning, forbidden to see your _paramour_.”

“Cécile, _what_ are yo -”

“It is a very long time - I admit, I would never wait for any man so long, not even a man like Snake. I’m impressed… I never would have thought you capable of such a thing.”

Kaz gives up. She obviously saw more than she had ever let on. He wonders, briefly, what Mother Base must have looked like from her point of view: there she was, a pretty civilian girl who knew how to demure, so under-estimated by everyone around her… the act Paz had died to perfect was something that came to Cécile effortlessly.

He accepts it when she hands him back his shot glass, filled anew. “How did you…?”

Cécile laughs - a soft, lilting sound, almost like she’s relieved to be able to say something with levity finally. “I used to flirt with Snake for sport, _oui_? I quickly realized that it would get me nowhere, but I continued because each time I did it, you would get so _grognon_...ah, _grumpy_.”

“That’s because I was trying to get with _you_!”

“Hmm,” Cécile taps her forefinger against her chin. “Strange that you never got so forlorn when I hit on Morpho, or that handsome medic, or Eagle Ray, _or_ Doctor Strangelove -”

“Wait, you and Strangelove -?”

“We’re not talking about me, _Monsieur_ Miller.”

“Cécile, it’s because I never noticed you hitting on all those other guy - _people_.”

“ _Oui_ \- my point exactly. You were not watching Snake because he was with me at those times…. you were watching me because I was with _Snake_.”

And, well, there’s not much Kaz can say to argue that. It’s true - he was something of a hypocrite in that sense; he couldn’t stand the idea of Big Boss’ eye straying somewhere else. It flattered his ego to be the sole exception to the legendary soldier’s self-imposed semi-celibacy. The thought of Snake getting it on with someone Kaz had failed to seduce himself was the about worst thing he could have imagined back then: it would have wounded both his pride _and_ his heart. God - things were so _simple_ in Costa Rica, if that’s all he had to worry about.

Kaz chuckles humourlessly and drinks his shot. “Anyone ever tell you that you could have had a great career in espionage, Cécile? Honestly - even at your age, it’s not too late to start.”

“I think what is more likely is that you are not as clever as you think you are.”

“Maybe,” Kaz mutters, holding up the empty shot glass. The way it bends the light is fascinating through his blurry, drunken vision.

He feels the couch dip, doesn’t quite register what that means until Cécile’s face comes into view. She crawls into his lap and gingerly slides off his aviators, setting them down carefully on the coffee table. His reflexes are so shot from liquor that he actually fumbles and drops his shot glass on her. She ignores the impact, merely rolling it off her shoulders and dipping in so that she can press her lips against his. Her plump lips are moist - eager - and the kiss is tinged with inviting intent.

“Cécile, what are you -” Kaz puts his hands on her shoulders, trying to slow the whole thing down. There’s something off here, but Cécile doesn’t answer him. “ _Ne parlez pas_ …” she whispers - sounding a little annoyed - and kisses him again. Her hair falls in curtains around his face as she dances her slender fingers up under the hem of his t-shirt. She traces the lines of his abs and sets her thumbs gently on the center of his chest.

He does the thing that he’s been lowkey fantasizing about since she opened the door and slides his hands up the length of her thighs to push aside the silky fabric of her négligée and robe to expose her ass. Her breath hitches when he gives it a little squeeze. She drags her fingers down his back and presses against him, rolling her hips into his as she kisses him with renewed vigour.

It’s been so long since he’s been touched with any tenderness or expertise - anything more than mutual masturbation with no eye contact, honestly - that he moans from just _that_. He’s transported back to a sunny Costa Rica afternoon, bantering with Cécile about recipes as she sunbathes out on the mess hall’s roof; he’s trying to hide how hungrily his eyes are wandering up and down her body and _she’s_ grinning because she knows how men react to her, and she doesn’t _care_...

Kaz has a hand cupped over one of her breasts and a thumb in the waistband of her panties when he actually stops to think critically about what’s happening. All at once, he backs off.

“Wait, wait -” when he tries to pull away, she traps his bottom lip between her teeth. _Goddamn_. “Cécile, slow down a sec. Is this a pity fuck?”

With his lips off limit, she begins peppering kisses up and down the length of his jaw. “Mmm? I do not recognize this english idiom.”

 _Oh, that’s bullshit_ , “- _Cécile_ , I mean… are you having sex with me because you feel sorry for me?”

 _That_ finally stops her in her tracks. She pulls back _all_ the way - not quite entirely out of his lap, but far enough that her robe tumbles back down and hides her legs. Her eyes are wide - she looks caught.

“Ah - _merde_ -” she swears under her breath. “It’s uh - hmm, I suppose… that is one way of putting it, but you make it sound so… crass.”

“It _is_ crass. Jesus, Cécile, what do you think I am!?”

“A friend,” she says honestly. “A friend who is lonely and lost.”

Kaz swallows down something thick in his throat - he’s definitely two of those, and kind of flattered to be considered the third.

“Also,” she continues with an embarrassed giggle, “I must admit that in my inebriated state, the thought of you and Snake together, it makes you _much_ more attractive.”

“Are you serious?”

She rolls her shoulders and looks away, all fake-abashed. “Come now, Monsieur Miller - as if you didn’t get excited at the idea that my relationship with Doctor Strangelove may have been more than _amis platoniques_.”

“That’s… not the same thing.”

Cécile jabs him right in the ribcage with her fore-finger, possessed of the sort of haughty exasperation she always used to wield at him back in the MSF days. “It is _exactly_ the same thing,” she says and slides all the way off him. Kaz sighs, only a little disappointed, and moves to swing his legs off the couch to put a little distance between them, to cool off.

“I always wondered -” Cécile muses, more drunkenly than she’d appeared before, “what he was like in bed.”

“Uhhhh,” Kaz says prolifically. Cécile snuggles up against him, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Not as good as you’re imagining, probably,” he mumbles, trying to diffuse the conversation as quickly as possible. He’s never actually verbalized anything about his and Snake’s relationship - not even between them, really. Every time Snake tried to start some sort of obnoxious conversation about it, Kaz brushed him off with the same practiced ease used on his one night stands.

“Mmm,” Cécile grabs one of Kaz’s arms and makes him wrap it around her shoulders. “- but… like a wild beast, _non_? Like an _animal_.”

“I-” and, yeah, that comparison had _definitely_ occurred to Kaz in the past. Thinking about it definitely wasn’t helping him cool down. “S-something like that, yeah. But we… he and I had -”

“ _Attraction chimique_?”

“An _understanding_ ,” Kaz corrects, voice going soft. “He and I understood each other. We… saw each other… in a way other people didn’t. A way other people couldn’t.” _Is that even true, Kazuhria_? he asks himself.

“I’m sorry. It is probably painful for you to talk about him like this, after all this time. I have been… inconsiderate.”

Kaz finally relaxes his arm around her shoulders, cups her arm with his hand and lets her snuggle against him proper, less like a potential lover and more like a sister. That’s the thought that finally kills his boner.

“Nah, it’s probably healthy. I’ve been -” _pretending, drinking, fantasizing about violence_ , “ - not well. Maybe talking about it’s better than bottling it up.”

“ _Men_ ,” Cécile says disdainfully. She’s quiet for a long time after that. She plays with the ends of her bath-robe’s belt, tying them and untying them again and again. After a while, she speaks.

“What are you,” she enunciates each word carefully, “doing in Spain at all, _Monsieur_ Miller?”

Kaz isn’t prepared for the question. He says, unconvincingly: “Uh, y’know, just… passing through. Admiring the arts.”

“You are on your way to Basque, _oui_?”

He looks away, to hide his eyes from her. “That obvious?” 

“Where else in Spain these days are men like you needed?” She lifts one end of her belt and lets it fall, watches it spool against her waist. “Seville is so peaceful. Strange to think that just a train ride away it is a virtual warzone.”

“Well… Franco is barely four years in the grave. It’s gonna take the country a long time to heal.”

She nods. “Ah - how is your _prénom_ pronounced again? _Kazuhira_?”

Kaz winces a little as she over-pronounces the ‘z’ and softens the ‘r’ more than necessary. It’s been a long time since he’s heard anyone use his real name - not since his last conversation with Zero. The man had called him ‘Kazuhira’ almost mockingly - like he was addressing a child.

“May I call you Kazuhira?” Cécile asks.

“Just Kaz is fine, Cécile.”

“Kaz,” she rolls the syllable around her mouth a few times. “Kaz - can I tell you a story?”

“If you pour me another shot of brandy, sure.”

She elbows him, probably a little harder than necessary, but she lurches forward to grab the bottle anyway. She takes a generous swig from it, then hands it to him. He raises an eyebrow and she stares him down. “You worried about germs from my spit? A little late for that now.”

Kaz takes the bottle and downs a mouthful. It tastes stronger, somehow, without the shot glass to temper their intake. Cécile snatches it back from him and begins her story: “I watched this movie once. ‘ _Hour of the Wolf_ ’...”

“Isn’t that Ingmar Bergman? I didn’t take you for the art film type.”

Cécile elbows him _again_. Kaz is beginning to rethink their current position. “ _Connard_! I earned my Masters from one of the finest universities in Paris, I’ll have you know.”

“Right, sorry, sorry.”

“But… you are correct. I much prefer sweeping, romantic films. Like _Doctor Zhivago_ or _The Umbrellas of Cherbourg_. But Strangelove - she liked _strange_ films. Science fiction. Arthouse. Psychological thrillers with philosophical undertones. I lied to her once and told her that I had quite enjoyed _Monsieur_ Bergman’s film _Persona_ , although I had it all twisted around. I thought that she was talking about the actress _Ingrid_ Bergman and was quite confused. Before I knew it, she and I were working through his whole filmography.” Cécile takes a drink, hands the bottle over.

“Why would you tell a lie like that?” Kaz wonders, taking a far longer gulp than he really should with how drunk he is.

“I could not stand the idea that Strangelove - a _Brit_! - was more cultured than I! And, perhaps... perhaps I wished for her to think highly of me. Do not look at me like that _Monsieur_ Miller! I think we have established that _you_ are _very_ familiar with the desire to both compete with _and_ impress an older peer.”

Kaz takes another too long drink. “So. _’Hour of the Wolf’_?”

“Have you seen it?”

Kaz shakes his head. Cécile gestures for him to hand her the bottle and he complies.

“In the movie a young woman moves with her husband to a new house after some sort of tragedy, which is not specified. But her husband, he is… _dément_. Thinks that he is seeing demons and ghosts. Obsessed with a woman from his past,” Cécile takes a drink. “His young wife, she does not share his delusions, but she tries her best to be understanding with him. She stays up with him, reads what he writes about his demons, goes on strange trips with him to terrifying places where people worship his ex-lover as if she is a goddess.”

Cécile looks at Kaz meaningfully.

“Wait… am I… the young wife in this scenario?”

She takes a sip of brandy and passes the bottle to him again. “In the end, the young wife loses patience with her husband’s violence, his obsessions. Her husband… he is betrayed by the obsessions of his past, torn apart by them. Lost in the woods. The wife, she escapes but she is not free of him. She is afraid that she has taken on his demons. That she now shares his madness, even though she will never see him again.”

Kaz is staring at her intently now, hand clasped around the bottle tight. Cécile’s looking straight ahead, chin tipped slightly to the side so that her hair tumbles over one shoulder and casts her face in orange shadow.

“Usually with these kinds of movies that Strangelove would show me, I would follow along just enough that I could fake my way through polite conversation afterward. I think this is the same tactic that Doctor Emmerich used with her as well.”

“Go figure,” Kaz grumbles.

“- but with this one, I saw something familiar in it. You and I are of a similar age, so you of course know… children born in the ruins of the war are not often born to happy marriages.”

Kaz gently sets down the brandy and lets Cécile cuddle up against him again. He feels a little strange talking post-war with someone from a country that had been occupied by the Axis. So many of the horrors of his childhood were Allied-induced. All it does it remind him how deep and long-lasting the scars of war truly are - here they are, in a country still bleeding from a wound inflicted over fourty years ago when their own nations were wearing only moderately impressive bandages.

“My father was a very brave man -” Cécile says sadly. “He, like many passionate and patriotic _Parisians_ participated in _La Résistance_. My mother was from _la campange_ and so her resistance had not been so direct. She did not understand the terrible things he had seen, or the hold they had on him. You could say that he was haunted. When the ghosts came, he would turn to -” Cécile raises her hand to tap her nails against the bottle “- drink. I was his little treasure - named after Saint Cecilia, patron saint of musicians. His own mother had been a concert violinist before the war. He never raised a hand to me, or said an off-colour word. But to my mother? He was a _monstre_.”

“Cécile, I’m sorry -”

She waves her hand to silence him. “Do not be. When I was still very young, my mother took me and she ran away. She instilled in me that it is important for women to be independent. For women to be able to stand on their own two feet without the support of men.”

Cécile’s tone was not as hopeful as one would imagine telling a story of feminist triumph. Kaz glances at her. “I’m sensing there’s a _but_ coming.”

“But!” Cécile flips her hair as she turns to look at him. “My mother herself soon turned to drink as well. Never as severely as my father did, but - just like the woman in _Monsieur_ Bergman’s film, my father’s ghosts haunted her.”

“I see.”

“The young wife in the film… I cannot remember the quote exactly, but she said something to the effect of: ‘ _if you live with someone, will you eventually become like them? Because you love them, you try to think like them and to see like them and so it will change you_.’ She wonders if... she not tried so hard to see what he saw, if she could have protected him from it.”

Kaz is suddenly hit in the gut with a memory: sitting beneath a lamp in Snake’s quarters, helping him thread a jigsaw into a new fake scar - this one, along the length of his thigh rather than down the center of his torso. Kaz made the mistake of joking: ‘ _What was wrong with the old one, Boss?_ ’ He can still remember the look Snake gave him - one of those sharp, chilling glares that were almost an act of violence in themselves. ‘ _You_ know _what, Kaz_.’ 

He’d tried so long to understand what the hell it was that kept Snake so rooted in the past - it was like he was still standing in that field, eternally holding a gun to his mentor’s face. Kaz tried to imagine what it would be like for him if every day he was in two places at once - doing morning drills with the newest MSF recruits while in the back of his mind, he was also remembering the things his mother said to him when she was on her death-bed. Is that what it was like for Snake: replaying his worst memories over and over again until they didn’t make sense anymore? Until they were just the base components of pain and trauma - worn out mechanisms that no longer fit together. Was it really that he was stronger than everyone else? Or was he just uniquely fragile? Was there any point even trying to _understa_ -

“Cécile I’m not -” Kaz tries to laugh, but it comes out thin and weak. “I’m not chasing down Snake’s ghosts. I’m just -”

“Why don’t you do something else then?” Cécile asks seriously. “You are a talented man! You have more skills than to hold a gun.”

“Yeah right. And do I have any proof of that? I’m thirty-two with no job experience outside the JSDF. That’s a resume with nearly a decade blank on it. I can’t exactly put training rebels, or managing the MSF on my job applications.”

“You’re resourceful! You could figure something out if you really put your mind to it! I think -” she rears back and flicks him in his nose. Kaz isn’t prepared for the blow and cups his hands over his face in shock.

“Ow!”

“I think actually that you do not want to leave. You _want_ to carry Snake’s burdens like this. You wish to fight his demons. But how long will you wait? Five years? Ten years? _Twenty_ years?”

Kaz keeps his hands cupped around his face. He doesn’t have an answer for that. He’s been living the last four years day-to-day, hand-to-mouth. He counts the days to remind himself how long it’s been _because_ he hasn’t actually felt it, not until he walked past the sign board outside the University of Seville’s campus and saw Cécile’s name on the guest list. Her career has taken her from trudging through jungles with mud-stained ankles to giving lectures at some of the most prestigious universities in Europe. At the age of thirty, her beauty has matured - her face is softer, more regal. Just four years has transformed her from a perky post-grad to a luminous professional, although maybe that last part’s just the liquor talking.

But what has four years done for Kaz? Crawling through the dirt and mud, taking money from desperate revolutionaries, following at Big Boss’ heels even though Big Boss isn’t here to reward him with approval... it’s like he’s standing still. He’s already sacrificed more days to Snake’s absence than he spent with the man in the flesh. Maybe he does know how Snake felt now. How long _will_ he wait - five years? Ten years? Twenty years, with one foot in the waking world and one foot trapped on a helicopter that is always exploding over the churning waters of the South Atlantic?

Cécile grabs his hands and slowly peels them off his face. “I admire Snake as well, Kaz, but he does not own your life.”

“No,” Kaz replies quietly, voice shaking a bit. “He owns my death. It’s a very important distinction.”

**1996**

Kaz falls back onto the hotel bed with a heavy sigh. He presses his eyes shut and tries to wash away the miry, sick feeling that clings to him after meetings like the one he just had. Spinning webs of double-crosses, lies, blackmail - it’s half-exhilarating, half gut-churning; the power-high makes the scummy feeling of dread that settles in the stomach immediately afterwards almost worth it.

He’s not afraid of the Boss finding out what he did, not right away at least. He trusts Anderson to keep his lips zipped tight on this deal even under pain of torture. He’s more worried about Ocelot. Part of him is convinced that Ocelot already knows - like the man is maybe precognitive and suspected that Kaz would make a move like this years before it even occurred to him to do it. He trusts Ocelot not to go running immediately to Big Boss, however. His position is so delicate, so _complicated_ \- something like this? He’d sit on it until it could do the most damage possible to Zero’s system. As petty as their personal feud had gotten at times, Ocelot is a consummate professional and would never waste something this big on someone he held in so little regard as Kazuhira Miller.

But if Snake did find out?”

_“And then what?”_

Kaz inhales sharply at the memory. He runs his thumb along his lower lip, scraping the tender bump there with his nail. Lip wounds heal quickly, but Kaz has been worrying at this one with his teeth and thumbnail so often he was beginning to wonder if it would leave a scar. A small part of him wants it to leave a scar - the rest of him is disgusted, ashamed of how far he’ll still go for a scrap of Snake’s attention. God, it’s been so _long_ since they’d really had it out.

_Shit, Kazuhira. You’re fifty now, pull yourself together._

The Japanese used to count age on the New Year back when he was born. He’d pestered his mother for an American-style birthday when they started to come into vogue in the late 50s. _“One year after the end of the war,”_ she’d said. _“ - almost exactly, but I can’t remember the day.”_ It’s August 20th now - he’s pretty certain his half-century has just ticked by.

At his age it’s embarrassing - no, _pathetic_ \- that his pace still quickens at the memory of Snake’s swift and brutal violence, at the feeling of strong fingers twisting in his hair, the taste of blood in his mouth… part of it was the youthful invigoration of being on the battlefield again; the other part of it was that Snake - in his profound lack of awareness - still treated him like he was twenty-five, the fucker. In some ways, their dynamic has barely changed in twenty years. It feels more like synergy than stagnation when they’re together, but with a little distance between them, the thing it feels like most is insanity.

_“And then what?”_

Kaz knows that he’s just signed his death warrant. Years ago, Code Talker had challenged his choice, suggested point blank that Kaz would probably have been more comfortable on Zero’s payroll. The thought of kowtowing _honestly_ to a man like Zero still roils his guts even after all these years, especially after the shit he’d seen in Angola, but he had to admit that there was a sort of beauty at the core of the PATRIOTS - it was clean, tidy, it didn’t discriminate. 

As long as Snake was alive, Kaz would stand dutifully at his side, but if the bastard was gonna drag them both down in a blaze of glory, Kaz couldn’t abide by him getting what he wanted after the fact on top of it all. It was a pyrrhic victory, sure, but that was the only kind that Kaz was ever going to get against Big Boss.

_“I shouldn’t have brought you here.”_

“No Boss,” Kaz murmurs out loud. “You probably shouldn’t have.” No reason to feel guilty: Kaz had made Big Boss promise to never lie to him again - a promise he’d, surprisingly, kept quite dutifully. Big Boss had made no reciprocal request, however; he’d always had a fairly pedestrian understanding of contract law.

Kaz rolls over in the bed and runs his hand over the scratchy, ugly fabric of the duvet cover. He briefly considers going back out and finding a bar, picking up someone to spend the night with. He was fairly confident that he could seduce someone pretty easily, especially in a city like Washington, D.C.. A war vet who hardly looks his age, with an obvious _story_ behind his wounds? And Kaz has so many _great_ stories about what, exactly, happened to his limbs. Sex would be a welcome distraction and, hey, if he was on an immature mission to spite Snake as petulantly as possible, he might as well go full hog. It’s been awhile since he’s come “home” with someone else’s marks all over him. 

He laughs to himself - at himself, really, for being so petty. _Yeah, yeah, Kazuhira - mope about Snake still treating you like you’re a young man who doesn’t know any better while you lay here imagining that you’re still as sexually desirable as you were when you were twenty-seven. Get over yourself._

Instead of getting up, Kaz stares at the phone for a while, deliberating. He drags himself up and sets a pillow against the baseboard so he can lean against it comfortably, then he picks up the phone and presses ‘9’ to dial out. He types in the digits confidently - it’s been more than half a year, but Kaz has always had a good head for memorizing numbers.

The ring-tone goes on long enough that Kaz is pretty certain he’s not going to pick up. He’s a little shocked that the number’s not been disconnected, to be honest. He’s about to hang up when David answers.

“Who is this?” 

The kid’s voice is rough and full of bristle. Kaz’s heart actually leaps at the sound of it - Big Boss’ voice has smoothed out over the years, almost like he’s finally grown into it, like his voice was ill-fitting when he was younger and so it scraped against his throat on the way out. David’s voice still has that quality to it - he sounds almost exactly like Snake had when Kaz first met him. It always gets to him the first time he hears it after a while, and it always sounds so wrong on David.

Kaz moves the receiver away for a moment so that he can steady the hitch in his breathing. Then he greets David with false cheer. 

“Evenin’, David - I hope you haven’t been drinking!”

It takes David a moment to reply to that and Kaz wonders if maybe he should have been a bit nicer.

“No,” David says finally. “No I just got in. I was out for a jog.”

“Alone?”

“With DD.”

“The old boy’s still kicking, then?”

“Yeah. You were right, though - he’s definitely on his last legs. Figure he’s got another half year in him, so I’ve been trying my best to make his last few months good ones.”

“His previous owner would have appreciated your dedication,” Kaz assures, thinking momentarily of Venom Snake napping on the upper echelons of the Combat Deck with DD curled around his shoulders. Better David never find out that he was the one who killed DD’s previous owner.

“Master Miller…” David is speaking lowly, “where are you calling from?”

“East Coast. I’m on layover for a connecting flight.”

“Are you back in America then?”

“No, I just had to fly in briefly to deal with some inheritance issues over my father’s estate.”

“Really? I’d gotten the impression that your father died a long time ago.”

“He did - offed himself over twenty years ago and left his entire fortune to a Vietnam veteran’s fund. But the relative tending to his house recently passed away and I was the only person they could find to take responsibility for it.” Lies always worked best when nestled between a few stray truths. Kaz wasn’t actually certain that his father’s family even knew he existed. There were still Millers who remembered the old Colonel kicking around in the Californian valley, but using his dead half-brother’s identity hadn’t come back to bite him in the ass yet, so he figured that none of them really cared anymore.

“... how’s Japan?”

“Good,” Kaz lies easily. “The weather’s a hell of a lot better than Washington, I can tell you that, and I’ve been frugal with my retirement fund so I haven’t had to search for a job yet. Spent the spring in the village my mother grew up in. It’s down on the south-east coast, so the shore-line is breath-taking.”

“Huhn,” David replies prolifically. David’s bright, but he’s not naturally suspicious. He wasn’t like his “father” - he wasn’t going to follow up on Kaz’s lies, to make sure that he was telling the truth. That knowledge was freeing. 

“You sound like you didn’t actually believe I was in Japan.”

“Last time we talked you told me that everything you’d ever said to me was a lie. Forgive me for being a little skeptical after all that.”

“Not _everything_ was a lie, David.”

“Enough of it was.”

“Look, if you don’t want to talk to me you’re free to hang up. But if you’re gonna stay on the line, you’d better cut the attitude kiddo.”

David sighs - more of a rattling grumble, really. “Fine.”

“Just ‘fine’?”

“... it’s good to hear from you again.”

“Well, now that we’ve got all that out of the way-” Kaz lowers his tone, couches a bit of flirtation into it. “- kid, what are you wearing?”

He can _hear_ David’s jaw clench. “That’s not funny and you know it.”

Well it was worth a try. “Sorry, sorry. It’s... good to hear from you as well, David. I thought you’d have moved on by now. What are you still doing, practically living down the street from FOXHOUND HQ?”

“I was going to move - had my eye on a little cabin up near Banff, but then _someone_ saddled me with a dog who’s too sick and old to put on a plane and too wild-tempered to take on a bus. So I guess I’m staying put for a while.”

“Hah!”

“I… bought a bed,” David says hesitantly.

“Good. Sleeping on the floor was going to wreck your back.”

“Hmm.”

“You still smoke like a chimney?”

“... yeah.”

“You should quit. That stuff’s like pouring tar directly into your lungs, y’know.”

“Pft. Do you really think I’m going to live long enough to get lung cancer?”

“You could, if your retirement’s really as permanent as you seem to want it to be. You’re otherwise a perfect physical specimen.” _And_ , Kaz adds silently, _you’re the clone of a man who’s been chain smoking cigars since he was fifteen with no sign of ill effects yet. If that first part doesn’t off you young, I guess you’re gold._

“Right...” David’s voice trails off and he falls quiet. He’s quiet long enough to make it awkward, long enough that Kaz wonders if he actually hung up over that little lecture.

“David, are yo-”

“About my retirement,” David interrupts. “I’ve been… thinking about what you said.”

“What part of it? I said a lot.”

“Yeah, you always do.”

“Ha _ha_ , kid.”

“I was… thinking about how you said I was ‘fucked’ without the military telling me what to do.”

Kaz’s eyes go wide and he tightens his hand around the receiver. What the hell was that shitty feeling crawling around at the bottom of his stomach? Oh, right: _guilt_. He opens his mouth to apologize - to explain that he’d been angry, caged, like a wounded dog backed into a corner. He’d just been saying whatever he could to cut David as deep as he could. 

What he says instead is: “... go on.”

“I’m worried that you were right.”

This is a delicate moment - what to do? He’d been so cocksure back in the autumn of ‘93 when Snake asked him: _“Do you think David would join us in Outer Heaven?”_

_“Like, do you think I could convince him?”_

_“... could you?”_

_Boss - trust me. I know what I’m doing._ Trust me, trust me, _trust me_ \- at this point, Snake should consider: _“Boss, trust me”_ code for _“Boss, absolutely do not trust me on this”_. Kaz had not been prepared for the way David subtly slipped under his skin, and not just because the kid’s direly misplaced attraction to him blatantly flattered his ego; being around David made him feel peculiarly normal, like maybe the best thing for his nerves would be to drag the kid out on a manly, platonic fishing trip some weekend and consciously ramp down the sexual tension. He gets this weird feeling like they could be friends, which is why he _let his guard down-_

\- the other problem with David is that he’s nothing like his father. Nothing like his brother, either, for that matter. Oh - he enjoyed violence all right, enjoyed how easily he could dominate another human being with just a few cracks of the wrist, Kaz could see it in his eyes. But he knew how to compartmentalize. He practiced the art of compartmentalization almost desperately - if anyone could make it out of this mess with his “soul” intact and put lie to Big Boss’ assertion that it was the battlefield or death for people like them, it was David. David had a romanticized preoccupation with the “normal” world: he _worried_ that he didn’t belong there, but he wasn’t yet so damaged that he believed himself banished from it.

 _And that’s why_ , Kaz presses his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. _We can’t just let him go. We_ can’t...

“Master, are you okay?”

“David…” Kaz uses his “teacher” voice - the tone of voice that makes his students snap to attention in an almost Pavlovian fashion. “ _David_ , of course I was right.”

“... Sir?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if _I didn’t think it was true._ ”

**1997**

“That can’t be true.”

Kaz is glad that he’s the one going first down the stairs because the exquisite expression of irritation that crosses his face would really contrast with the pleasant rapport he’s been trying his best to fake with Doctor Madnar since he arrived in Zanzibar Land. _“Make him feel welcome,”_ Big Boss had said. “ _Make him feel comfortable_.”

 _Not really necessary_ , Kaz thought at the time. Doctor Madnar had glanced briefly at Big Boss from beneath his thick brow and overgrown eyebrows with an expression that was equal measures terror and worship. As far as he knew, Big Boss was a man who returned from the dead - was rebirthed in fire and emerged from the immolating flames a new man, a whole man. A human Phoenix. You’d think a guy so smart would put two and two together, but then again in Kaz’s experience brilliant scientists often had glaring blind spots as if to compensate for their staggering intellect.

And, well, it’s not like _he’d_ figured it out on his own either.

“I assure you, Doctor, I wouldn’t lie to you about something like this. The woman was truly ahead of her time.”

“Impossibly ahead of her time from what you’ve said. Even today, America and Japan have only made the tiniest of baby-steps towards true Artificial Intelligence. How could a scientist in the 70’s have created something that nearly approached _true sentience_.”

“She was working with many of the same tools we’re working with today,” Kaz explains, keeping his tone chipper. “The Peace Walker project was such a debacle thanks to us that the CIA didn’t just scrap it - they suppressed the technology involved. And, well, there are other reasons - bigger reasons, _scary_ reasons - that the world is about twenty years behind what they should be in AI development, but that information is pretty high above your pay grade, Doctor.”

Madnar just snorts - well, he’ll believe it when he sees it. Kaz rolls his eyes one last time as he digs out his X.O. override keycard and swipes it over the lock to the underground hangar’s service door. It takes a moment to register his permissions; even Big Boss’ keycard has to go through several seconds of encryption this deep in Zanzibar Land’s heart.

In the silence that precedes the door opening, Kaz catches something moving out of the corner of his eye - human sized and shimmering bright against the far wall of the hallway. He whirls around, hyper-alert suddenly. Doctor Madnar leaps back as Kaz nearly beams him in the eye with his bionic arm.

“Watch it!” Madnar flattens himself against the wall. Kaz flips up his sunglasses for a moment and scans the length of the hallway with narrowed eyes. Madnar’s shift from annoyance to fear is so tangible Kaz can feel it radiating off him in waves. “... C-Commander Miller? What is it? Are we safe?”

“... yeah,” Kaz mutters, not entirely convinced himself. He thought he’d seen… he hadn’t seen something like _that_ since 1985. It had to be a trick of the light. Code Talker had fixed his eyes before he left, he’d _promised_ that he’d fixed them. Kaz was just a little light-blind these days, it wasn’t possible for him to see… he shakes his head and slides his aviators back into place. When he turns to face Madnar, he’s smiling again.

“Yeah, we’re fine, sorry. Thought I saw a Poisonous Zanzibar Hamster.”

“A… poisonous… hamster?”

“It’s a particularly nasty kind of rodent that lives in the jungle around here. No one knows what it’s real name is. Someone started calling them “poisonous hamsters” and it stuck. They wreak havoc on our rations and under no circumstances can we let one get into the Metal Gear hangar - they’ll chew up all the wires, cost us tens of thousands of dollars. It’s happened before.”

Madnar rubs his nose and frowns. “That was worth nearly giving me a black eye?”

Kaz shrugs, “sorry, honestly not used to having two arms again yet.” He flexes his mechanical arm, savours the way the joints click when he wrenches them tighter. “I haven’t had the prosthetics for long.”

Madnar seems to accept this explanation. The door finally beeps positive and pops open.

“Good timing,” Madnar murmurs.

“After you, Doctor,” Kaz holds out his arm like a gentleman. If there is something stalking them, he doesn’t want to let Madnar out of his sight. Whatever misgivings Kaz has about him, they need him.

They enter the underground hangar from the top rungs of the catwalk. Madnar’s breath catches in his throat immediately - Big Boss has had the R&D team already start work on the outer casing for the new mech. The armour is segmented and flexible, so it can be readjusted if Madnar’s new plans don’t quite fit one way or the other. What Madnar’s looking at, however, are the scraps from the other gears, the older gears, hanging along the back wall. He doesn’t seem disappointed that his TX-55 is the only model they hadn’t managed to salvage a piece of.

“Is that a piece from… Sahelanthropus?” Madnar wonders, voice trembling. And there it is - that change in his voice that belies it, the _lust_ for weapons development. The need to create something that doesn’t just change the world, but dominates it. There are so many ways for a man to leave a mark on history, but violence is by far the path of least resistance.

“Mmm. We’re gonna move it to a more secure chamber once the real construction begins down here. Can’t risk setting it off.”

“Uranium enriched Metallic Archaea,” Madnar mumbles. He realizes that Kaz is staring at him and clears his throat, tearing his eyes from Sahelanthropus’ severed thigh-bone with great difficulty. “I was given access to some of Doctor Emmerich’s notes when I was working on the TX-55. Er - _very_ limited access,” he clarifies. “I _was_ a prisoner after all.”

His tone is probing, hopeful. Kaz sighs. 

“Don’t expect us to show you everything right away, Doctor. The Boss still isn’t sure he trusts you as far as he can throw you. If you wanna see everything we’ve got locked up here in Zanzibar, you’re gonna have to earn it. We can’t have you going back to the civilized world with a head full of our secrets - I know what weapons scientists are like. Minds like steel traps.”

Madnar raises his nose and makes an exaggerated spitting noise. “What use have I for the civilized world now, Commander Miller? I betrayed my homeland for the false kindness offered by the West. For my trouble, the West has rejected me and now I can never see my daughter again. Where else can I go? My genius, my talents, my life - they belong to Big Boss now.”

Kaz nods appraisingly. The Doctor knows the script well. It helps that there is a degree of sincerity in it. He’s about to reply when he feels a breeze brush by his cheek. He turns his head around and sees something that looks like an orange palm print on the railing near the stairs. When he blinks, it’s gone.

“Commander Miller? Can I go take a closer look? I want to examine this _‘AI Mammal Pod’_ of yours.”

“Uh, wait a sec.” Kaz sets his hand on his radio and fiddles with the transceiver, wondering if he should call for Fox. He banishes that thought quickly - he’s learned to bear many ignominies he never thought himself capable of throughout his years with Big Boss, but proving himself a paranoid old crank in front of Big Boss’ new(er) right hand man was not an acceptable one. 

He clicks his radio to Big Boss’ frequency, but doesn’t turn it on. Sometimes they’ll subtly tune each other in if something important or suspicious is happening, to save time explaining it later - like if a soldier has done something so severe they need to be “debriefed” by both the C.O. and X.O., or, say, if a defected scientist starts talking shit in an unguarded manner. It’s an artefact from their MSF days, when virtually the only time Kaz turned off his radio connection to Snake was if he was doing the taxes or trying to get laid.

Madnar is staring at him with barely veiled impatience. Kaz waves him towards the stairs.

“Yeah, sorry - thought I was getting a ring. Let’s go. Watch the stairs, though - last step’s a doozy.”

Kaz corrals Madnar down the steps carefully, all but placing his hands on the man’s shoulders to protect him from whatever was (whatever might be, Miller, don’t get ahead of yourself) in the room with them. Madnar’s steps are brisk the moment he hits the work floor. When he reaches the AI core, he paces around it eagerly with one knuckle under his wooly chin. He nods appraisingly.

“Hmm - the armour is ingenious. Nearly seamless, smooth, compact - from the struts at the bottom I assume that it was mobile? Could be moved easily and docked into any machine as long as it had the correct ports?”

Kaz is making an analytical sweep of the room and can’t really indulge the Doctor in polite conversation. “Yeah,” he says, trying not to sound as distracted as he is. “- something like that. You can tell all that just from looking at it?”

“I’m very good at what I do, Commander Miller. I had also considered making the TX-55’s black box mobile, but your Boss set very demanding deadlines in Outer Heaven. I ran out of time to even consider creating a universal dock for it. Although, at the time I might not have been so willing to give your organization the ability to easily rebuild. It will be different this time.”

Madnar’s words are going in one ear and out the other. Kaz catches it again - the outline of a human being, _unmistakable_ this time. It’s weaving between the pillars, working its way closer. Kaz can see it clearly now - this isn’t like with Quiet; the intruder must be wearing some sort of stealth camouflage. What Kaz is seeing is the faint after-image of heat radiating off their body when they move.

_But how?_

\- then he _feels_ it. The subtle sting, the uncomfortable sensation of something very small moving under the ciliary of his eyes, crawling in the sclera, like what a needle feels like being pulled beneath skin that’s been numbed. _How…_?

The intruder weaves again - more confidently this time, obviously unaware that they’ve been detected. Kaz watches and -

_\- can’t quite track the movement in the storm. The sand’s stinging his eyes even through his aviators, it’s getting in his mouth even though he’s got his scarf pulled up over his noise. His radio is cracking like lightning over the ocean, but the interference is too thick to pick up anything coherent. All he can hear are screams as his teams’ frequencies black out one by one._

_Kaz throws himself against the wall of a bombed out house and tries to catch his breath. He knocks his head against the brick and shuts his eyes to squeeze the burning out of them. He shuts his eyes for one second, just one_ goddamn _second and when he opens them again it’s there, towering over him. Grey skin, eyes on fire, the finer features of its face hidden beneath… what looks like a hellish, industrial life-support system. It looks like a ghost, or a… a zombie. A monster in the flesh._

_Kaz has just enough time to catch his breath before the hand goes around his throat. His sunglasses tumble off and he -_

Kaz is shocked back to his senses by the sound of his aviators hitting the steel floor. He jerks up and spins around to make sure Doctor Madnar is safe. Madnar looks like he’s only just turned around which is… fine, good. Better that he not see Big Boss’ well respected second in command in a compromised state when he’s only been here two weeks.

“Commander Miller?”

“Madnar, stay close to me,” Kaz snaps. He taps his radio on just before saying: “there’s something in here with us.”

“ _Something_?” Madnar stumbles forward and grabs Kaz’s flesh arm. Kaz yanks it away - he might need it, if he needs to shoot someone.

“Someone. Using some sort of high tech stealth technology to stay out of sight.”

“St- _Stealth_ technology? You mean he is… invisible?”

“You know what? How about you don’t ask anymore questions and just let me -”

The heat signature makes a practiced dive across the room to duck behind the construction scaffolding. Of course - the scaffolding stretches from nearly one side of the hanger to the other with lots of small gaps, places where the intruder can move slow and careful. Standing still, they’re invisible. They’ve probably guessed that Kaz is tracking either their heat-signature or their footsteps.

Kaz holds one arm behind him to illustrate to Madnar the distance of space that should be kept between them as they move - slowly - towards the hangar bay’s bifold doors. Madnar’s not actually that much older than him, but he’s pudgy, arthritic and probably can’t make a run for it on his own.

“I know you’re in here. If you can speak English, why don’t we talk this out, huh?”

“What are you _doing_!?” Madnar hisses. Kaz slaps his hands down to silence him.

“If you’re an assassin, I can guarantee that my Boss and I can offer you a better deal than you’re getting. And I’m not just talking about money - I’m talking about _freedom_.”

No response. As Kaz backs Madnar towards the doors, he lets his vision flitter from scaffolding gap to gap, watching for just the slightest hint of heat. He -

 _\- sees shadows moving through the sand, jerking erratically, their bones at strange angles. His vision flickers between dark and darker until, finally, the ghost drops him. He hits a rock - right at the center of his back. Knocks whatever wind he had left in him right out of him. He’s starting to get light headed,_ giddy. _There are four shadows above him now, staring down at him with their hungry, luminescent eyes. He starts laughing._

_“You… screwed up,” he coughs. The taste of blood fills his mouth. “Big… Boss… isn’t here.”_

_The ghosts don’t answer - probably can’t understand human language. Aren’t capable of it. The first one tips its head to one side._

_“Better… kill me now,” he rasps. “Because… when he does come to get me… you’re gonna be…_ fucked.”

_The ghost raises its heel and -_

“Commander Miller!”

Kaz snaps back to the present, breathing hard. Not now, _not now_. It’s been so long since he’s let this shit get to him. It’s been so long since his eyes… since his… just _fuck. Fuck you, Code Talker, always thinking that you know what’s best for -_

Madnar is flailing when Kaz turns to look at him; he’s been caught. _I shut my eyes for one second, just one goddamn second and when I open them again -_

The intruder’s stealth camouflage doesn’t work right pressed up against a human chest - it looks like a sleeve of mirrors, reflecting Kaz’s own sweat-drenched face back at him. The assassin doesn’t have a gun - instead he’s got a knife pressed flush against Madnar’s external carotid artery. 

Kaz doesn’t stop to think, he just moves - shoves the hand of his bionic prosthetic between the knife and the Doctor’s neck. The intruder slices, apparently having not noticed his opponent’s mismatched hands. It’s a chilly evening, and Kaz’s camo jacket hangs a bit long in the arms.

Kaz grips the knife and pries the intruder off Madnar. He shoves the Doctor away and then he -

 _\- throws himself and the Puppet to the floor. He struggles to his knees, fumbles for his gun. Clicks off the safety, hand trembling, breath coming in harsh pants. He shoots it in the left eye. Then he shoots it in the right eye. Then he shoots it in the center of the head and he keeps shooting again and again and again until his ears are ringing and his aviators are splattered with blood and the Puppet’s face - its_ mockery of a human face - _is a bloody, craterous mess. And when his clip runs dry he throws his gun away and uses his crutch to keep beating its face in until it turns to pulp, until -_

_“Commander Miller!”_

“- ommander Miller!”

“Kaz!”

 _“Kaz. Kaz!_ Kaz, _look at me-”_

_Strong arms pulling him back - a metal hand closes around his elbow and twists it just so, just enough that his crutch goes clattering to the floor. Kaz is pulled into a strong, warm, embrace. He fights against it, but Venom Snake’s grip is just as constrictor-tight as the real Big Boss’. They’re alone in the room now - just them, a dozen mostly dead bodies and a corpse. Kaz can’t get his breathing under control. Venom holds him so gently, so carefully - like he’s holding a baby bird between his hands._

_“It moved Boss. It lunged at me.”_

_“Shh, Kaz. It’s okay.”_

_“No, it’s not fucking okay! It reacted to my eyes. To my eyes, Boss! Code Talker said that they were inert,_ benign, _but when that thing looked at me, I felt it! I -”_

_“Kaz, calm down.”_

_“Don’t tell me to calm down! Not wh-”_

“Commander Miller, stop!”

“Kaz! _Kaz_ , calm down!”

_He hides his face in the crook of Venom’s neck, trying to get his heartbeat under control. His eyes are churning - little threads swimming beneath the skin. He fists his hand in the fabric of Venom’s camo and yanks him even closer, close enough that he can smell his sweat. Right now, like this, he smells like the real thing. Kaz can almost pretend..._

_“Hey, Boss,” he whispers. “Let’s fuck.”_

_“What?”_

_“You heard me. Fuck me. Right now.”_

_“Kaz, we’re -”_

_“No one’s gonna come in that door. Everyone’s terrified of me. You’re the only one that cares. The only one that takes care of me.”_

_“Kaz, no…”_

_Kaz screws his eyes shut. He can feel them, he can feel them. What’s even the use of you if you won’t even… if I can’t even forget for a few minutes that you’re not him, that I’m not home, that we’re not -_

_“Kaz,” Venom grabs both of Kaz’s shoulders when he tries to violently twist out of his grasp. Kaz gropes for his crutch, tries to smack Venom with it. “_ Kaz, _what is wrong with you!?”_

_“What’s wrong with you!? This is hardly the worst place we’ve had sex.”_ Not that you’d know that. 

_“Since Huey… you won’t let me touch you, you’re always so distant. But now…? Here?”_

_Kaz rests his forehead against Venom’s, biting back angry tears. “Please,” he begs. “Please, Snake. I just want to feel alive. Just for a few minutes. Help me. Help me feel alive.”_

_Venom scoops him up like a fucking storybook princess and lays him down on the blood splattered gurney. He kisses him sweetly, lovingly. Kaz bites his lip. “Not like that,” he hisses. “Do it right-”_

_Something dark - regretful - passes through Venom’s eye, but he complies. He braces his arm across Kaz’s neck and -_

“Kaz, look at me. Please, look at me. Come back.”

Kaz pulls back and _stops_. His right hand is suspended in the air, dripping blood. He glances down and sees the intruder laid out beneath him. The camouflage short-circuited at some point during the beating. It’s a man - southeast asian, about fourty… maybe. It’s hard to tell - his face is wrecked: nose caved in, both eyes hidden under swollen skin. One of his eye-sockets is leaking white viscera. He looks like shit, but he’s still breathing - blood is bubbling out from his lips in a steady rhythm. 

A firm hand falls on Kaz’s shoulder and Kaz reels around on instinct. His prosthetic arm snaps out and grabs the neck of the person who touched him. Of course it’s Snake. Kaz doesn’t let go - he’s still confused, nervy, seeing double: the hangar bay at Zanzibar Land, a blood-stained laboratory at Mother Base 2.0. He tightens his mechanical fingers around Snake’s neck.

Gray Fox appears out of nowhere and holds a machete to his jugular. Snake waves him off. His gaze stays steady, searches for Kaz’s wandering eyes until he catches them. They stare at each other for what feels like _hours_ : Snake calmly struggling for breath and Kaz crushing his trachea one agonizing centimetre at a time.

_He won’t stop me. I could kill him, I could end it right now - I crush his throat, Jaeger slits mine and I get what I want. It would be so easy. And I would be free._

The look Snake’s giving him - it’s a placid sort of complete trust that Kaz hasn’t seen from him since before the coma. It’s the way he used to look at Kaz when they got to drinking and talking, back in their shack in Barranquilla. 

It’s the same look he gave him the afternoon Peace Walker marched backwards into Lago Cocibolca and Snake stayed out on the dock staring after it for hours. He refused to talk to anyone, to even _look_ at them, he turned on his heel to walk off into the jungle and didn’t stop until Kaz yanked him back by the collar, and… in that moment he knew that he’d pulled Snake back from the brink. That it was his voice, his hands - just this once, he’d been the one who kept Snake’s one foot planted in the human world. He-

\- he closes his eyes and takes a long, shuddering breath, then opens his hand and lets Snake go. Snake falls to his knees and presses a hand against the center of his chest, massaging his sternum to help get his air flow going again. Kaz stutters shakily to his feet and goes to him, rubs Snake’s back in slow, even circles: a silent apology, a silent expression of gratitude. _Thanks for trusting me, Boss._

Madnar is flat against the wall, his face drained of colour. Kaz pointedly avoids eye-contact - it was gonna take a hell of a lot of smooth talk to win the man’s trust back. Fox is checking the intruder’s vitals. The beaten man is speaking - mumbling in a language that might be english, but probably isn’t. Fox puts his ear to the man’s mouth and listens for a minute.

“Frank,” Big Boss barks, his voice gravelly. “What’s he saying?”

“It’s Vietnamese,” Fox says and listens for a few more seconds. Then he looks up, grey eyes wide. “Boss - he says that he wants to defect.”

**(RECORDING OF ALL OUTGOING PHONE CONVERSATIONS  
REDACTED WASHINGTON HOTEL  
SURVEILLANCE SUBJECT: K. MILLER 20/08/96)**

[CLICK]

“... Sir?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if _I didn’t think it was true.”_

[silence, 53 seconds]

“I’ve been thinking about giving them a call.”

“Who?”

“The mercenary company you recommended to me. Diamond Dogs?”

“Oh?”

“You said that Fox signed up with them?”

“That’s what I heard. No one’s seen Jaeger since Outer Heaven.”

“Nn, yeah. Didn’t think that he’d have told you where he went.”

“What?”

“Nevermind. Diamond Dogs. You still think it’s a good idea?”

“I...”

“...”

“...”

“Master Miller?”

“No... no, David don’t - David, don’t do that.”

“What are you talking about? You’re the one who gave me the calling card.”

“I don’t care what I said before. What I’m saying now is -”

“You _just_ said that you think I need to go back to the military. That’s a pretty quick 180, even for you.”

“I gave you that Diamond Dogs card before I... saw how you were with DD.”

“What does that mean?”

“If you absolutely need to use your skills, don’t do Black Ops. Don’t do private military. Go solo, work for the little people. Put personal ads out in, I don’t know, that _American Ronin_ magazine. If you go to Diamond Dogs, you might as well go back to FOXHOUND.”

“Are you okay, Miller?”

“Of course I’m okay. I’m an old man enjoying my cushy retirement. What’s there to not be okay about?”

“Your voice is shaking. You’re talking faster than usual. Also, that was a strange thing to say.”

“I...”

“... I know you’re not going to talk to me, but I thought it was worth trying.”

“I guess it’s... just... being back in America.”

“America?”

“I got used to being home again. You know, when I was a kid... there was nothing I wanted more than to move to America.”

“The way you look? I can imagine.”

“I was obsessed with American cars, American TV shows - I taught myself to read English by collecting the magazine the soldiers stationed in my city tossed in the trash - not all of them age appropriate, of course.”

“Uh huh.”

“But when I got here... I realized that I just didn’t like it very much.”

“It’s hard to assimilate into a new culture, even if you spend years practicing.”

“It’s not that. I’ve been all over the world. Always been happier anywhere but here.”

“I’ve... always wanted to move away too.”

“Where? Banff?”

“Further north. Yukon. Alaska.”

“Alaska’s America, David.”

“Barely.”

[a beat of silence]

“Master... if you’re going back to Japan, that means you’ve got a layover on the West Coast...”

“ _Kid_ , don’t do this.”

“Why don’t you...”

“What happens if I come see you, huh?”

“...”

“You want me to take you to... to Japan with me? You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I studied the language in FOXHOUND training. I speak it passably.”

“I don’t care if you speak the language passably. I want to know what you think is going to happen if you come to see me and I take you home with me? Tell me _exactly what you think is going to happen_.”

“...”

“That’s what I thought.”

[silence, eighteen seconds. a sigh]

“Go to bed, David.”

“It’s 6PM in Washington.”

“Go to bed anyway.”

[CLICK]

**1997**

There’s a knock on his door. He knows who it is, so he doesn’t bother answering. Big Boss is going to come in whether he’s invited or not.

Kaz is sitting on his cot, leaning against the wall with his flesh arm slung over his eyes. He’s stripped down to his undershirt and boxers. Both are still damp because he couldn’t even wait to get fully undressed before throwing himself in the shower. Couldn’t stay in the shower long enough to get clean. The water got too hot, made him remember… made him _forget_ that he had all four limbs now, more or less. He doesn’t bother looking when Big Boss finally opens the door.

“Boss,” he says hollowly.

“He didn’t die, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 _It’s not_ , Kaz doesn’t say out loud. Snake already knows.

“You could have easily restrained me before it went that far.”

Big Boss doesn’t respond immediately. Kaz hears his boots click as he crosses the room. The cot dips as Snake comes to sit beside him.

“I admit,” he says, a little mischievously. “I wanted to see what you were capable of.”

 _That_ makes Kaz look. He lets his arm slide down his face and flop bonelessly onto the mattress. He feels tired the same way he used to in the Diamond Dogs days, when climbing a flight of stairs was like running a marathon.

Big Boss is grinning at him. “Congratulations, Kaz - you beat a man so thoroughly that he decided to join us.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out Kaz’s aviators. Kaz stares at them for a moment, then snatches them back. He sets them on the bedside table, beside his oxycontin.

“Hn. Is that so?”

“Well - partly. He’s a very renowned assassin - renowned enough that I bet even you haven’t heard of him. The only reason he took the commission was that he’d heard about Zanzibar Land and wanted to check us out. Figured that if we could stop him, we were worth joining.”

“So no hard feelings for caving his face in?”

“The opposite, actually. He’s in awe of you.”

“Now _that_ sounds familiar.”

They sit in companionable silence for a moment. Kaz is acutely aware that Snake is looking him over. He always feels it when Snake’s eyes are on him.

“Kaz, your hand.”

Kaz looks - out of habit - at his left hand. Snake shakes his head. “No - the other one.”

Kaz examines his prosthetic. There’s still blood staining the grooves. Hell, there’s still blood on Snake’s _neck_. Snake unties the red kerchief from around his left arm and gestures for Kaz to give him the prosthetic.

“Let me get that for you. You’ve got soldiers to drill tomorrow morning. Can’t look sloppy.”

“Hn - might be a good motivator if they know what happens when the Hell Master gets pissed off.”

“This _isn’t_ what happens, Kaz,” Big Boss says firmly. “This isn’t going to happen again.” The sudden chill in his tone sends a shiver up Kaz’s spine.

“Of course not.”

“I need you in top condition, or you’re of no use to me.”

“I know.”

With that settled, Snake’s aura relaxes again. He takes Kaz’s hand in his and spits into his kerchief. With great and tender care, he begins cleaning the blood out from between the grooves in the prosthetic. Kaz can’t exactly feel it, but the motion is still soothing, _intimate_. 

He takes advantage of the stillness between them to stare at Snake’s neck. It’s a mess - dried blood chipping off to reveal multi-coloured bruises mottling his skin. Kaz has watched bruises blossom yellow-red-purple on a throat countless times in his life. Has seen it on his own skin more times than he can recall. But on Big Boss? Somehow the wounds don’t make him look fragile. They make him look more _wild_ , even though he keeps his whitening hair trimmed neatly to fit the role of _El Generalissimo_ he plays.

Those wounds… the knowledge that he’s the one who caused them? It sends a pleasant, dizzying feeling spinning round the bottom of Kaz’s gut.

“I could have killed you,” Kaz breathes. He has to say it out loud to believe it’s true.

Snake glances up at him “Why didn’t you?” he asks.

Kaz reaches out and rubs his thumb into the center of the darkest bruise. The action elicits a delicious grunt of pain.

“I was thinking about Lake Cocibolca,” Kaz answers. He trails his fingers along the ring of bruises, tracing the jaundice rims with his blunt nails before pressing his fingers into the dark centers. Snake’s eye flutters shut and he groans. “I was thinking about how you started walking away.” Kaz presses harder.

“Mmm,” Snake keeps his eye shut, drops his kerchief. “I don’t remember what I was thinking back then.”

“I know you don’t,” Kaz whispers. He runs his hands - both of them - up the sides of Snake’s face. He hooks his flesh thumb under the tie of the eyepatch and slowly begins to peel it off. Snake doesn’t move to grab his wrist, so he keeps going, drags it through Snake’s bristly, pale hair and lets it flutter off to rest on the mattress, nestled in the rumpled sheets.

Unlike the sight of bruises on his own neck, _this_ is an occurrence Kaz actually can count out on one hand. Big Boss opens his eyes: both of them. The right eye is half collapsed - the bullet scar grazes all the way to his temple. Kaz brushes his fingers over it.

“Shit, Snake. Sometimes I don’t know if you’re a genius or if you don’t think about what you do and say at all.”

“Maybe I’m just getting senile,” Snake chuckles. He lets Kaz push him down on the cot and crawl over him.

“Yeah, in that case you’ve been senile since you were thirty-six.” Kaz rests their foreheads together and smiles. “You need a spry young guy like me to take care of you, as usual.”

“You know, Kaz, one day you’re going to find a grey hair and then what?”

“It’ll never happen,” Kaz murmurs. _We’re not gonna live long enough_.

Kaz gently winds his fingers around Snake’s throat in the same motion that he kisses him.

 

 

**(LETTER FROM ROY CAMPBELL TO M.B. MILLER  
redirected from a locked PO Box in Yokosuka, Japan  
to a Safe Box in REDACTED)**


	9. [1974] Barranquilla/[1998] Zanzibar Land

**1974**

After Lago Cocibolca…

… after Lago Cocibolca, everything’s come together. The mood on Mother Base has veered between generally celebratory and a debauched sort of anxious carousing worthy of turn of the century European literature which, really, was to be expected considering that just three days ago they were on the edge of watching the world tip into a possible nuclear holocaust and _now_ they were the only people left alive who even knew that it almost happened.

But, everything’s fine. Better than fine. It’s great - the MSF has a newly earned sense of belonging and togetherness now that they know what they and their Boss are capable of together. _Commandante_ Amanda and her men have won their first major victory, and the MSF has got the world’s premier AI specialist on their payroll now. On top of all that, Zero’s money is still rolling in. Everything is _great_ -

\- which is what Kaz is standing on the deck of the MSF’s old headquarters in the rain trying to convince Amanda of.

“Just - this is the kind of thing the Boss and I need to do on our own. We’re already dead men walking in the eyes of Langley, so I don’t want to risk any of the troops accidentally leaving behind some sort of identification in the camp once we vacate. You _know_ the CIA’s gonna come snooping around.”

Amanda’s hearty snort at the mention of the CIA is audible even over the deafening thrum of rain on the shack’s roof. The radio crackles as she clears her throat - probably taking in a mouthful of smoke - and she says: “I just don’t like the idea of you and Snake there without backup. What if _La CIA_ comes around earlier than you thought? Let me send some of my men and -”

“Absolutely not. Listen - we won’t be more than a few hours. We just gotta burn a few documents and banners. Until then, I want you to help Cassowary and Eagle Eye keep an eye on things, huh? Snake and I can look after ourselves.”

It takes a moment, but Amanda sighs in resignation. She bids him farewell in Spanish and cuts the line. Kaz sighs and runs a hand through his hair, staring out over the beach. He watches the rain bounce off the ocean, get swallowed by the waves; South America is beautiful, but the weather is shit. They’re two days into September’s rainy season and already Kaz feels like his skin is going to peel off from the constant onslaught. Mother Base is covered almost entirely in tarps, but everyone is soaking wet all the time anyway, nothing to be done. When Kaz first heard ‘rainy season’ he imagined something like spring in Japan: inconvenient for the locals, sure, but gentle enough that it’s recently begun to draw tourism from the West. Honestly, only Americans would travel halfway across the world to get rained on.

Kaz gathers his nerves and makes sure that he’s ready to say everything he’s planned to say before heading back inside the shack. It’s true that he and Snake have been meaning to strip down their Barranquilla camp for a while now, but that’s not the true purpose of this trip. 

Snake’s been… _edgy_ since Peace Walker. Distant, all-locked up and dead-eyed - the men have been thirsty for his attention, excited to congratulate him personally on his _heroism_. Kaz has kept one eye on him since dragging him back to the helicopter on the shore of Lake Cocibolca, and what he’s noticed is that the warmth has drained from Snake’s voice, the patience in his stance has worn thin. Sometimes his fingers would even twitch around the end of his elbow when a particularly enthusiastic soldier vied for his divided attention.

The Boss really needed a few hours away from all the noise and socialization otherwise he was going to throw someone into the ocean, but hell if Kaz was going to let him go wandering off into the jungle on his own. He was afraid that he’d never find him again if he did.

Boss, Kaz recites in his head. No, no, that wasn’t right: _Snake. Listen, we need to talk about what happened_. Too nonspecific. Never give Big Boss a chance to feign obtuseness. _We need to talk about Peace Walker._ Not we. Wrong tact. _Snake. You need to talk about Peace Walker. You need to talk about The Boss_.

Kaz takes a deep breath and heads into the shack. 

"Snake, hey -”

The building is empty. It’s the same as he left it - desk drawers pulled out all the way, documents spilt everywhere, a canister of gasoline perched on the meeting table, but Snake’s gone and the front door is flapping open in the breeze.

“Oh, are you _shitting_ me.”

Kaz runs out into the storm, following after Snake’s trail. The rain is falling hard enough to erase evidence almost immediately after its been left, but Snake’s a big guy and he wasn’t exactly trying to hide where he was going. His deep prints are barely visible, but they’re running all the way down the well-beaten path to the old camp. Halfway there, Kaz finds the Boss’ shirt discarded and shucked over a low-hanging tree branch. Confused, but not really _surprised_ , Kaz grabs the drenched shirt and continues down the path, moving as quickly and quietly as he can without losing his footing in the mud.

Snake doesn’t seem to hear him sneaking up. He’s standing - bare chested - in the ruins of their old camp, holding up his combat knife. Kaz is taken aback at the sight of him, he hasn’t seen Snake naked since he came back. In the last week Snake has refused medical attention, studiously rebuffed all of Kaz’s invitations to bed and avoided participating physically in morning drills, instead opting to lazily direct from the sidelines while chewing on an unlit cigar.

Now Kaz knows why. His back is a _mess_ \- burns, abrasions, an ugly, purple bruise that runs all the way from his shoulder blade to his hip and then disappears beneath the hem of his pants, probably from being thrown against the wall by the force of Peace Walker’s massive limbs slamming the ground. Most shocking are the darkened lines that run through his veins, highlighting them in tree-branch patterns that spiral out from his abdomen. His sides are slightly blackened where they begin, the fading remnants of Strangelove’s torture. Kaz’s breath catches in his throat - he’s angry at himself for not being more diligent about forcing Snake to the Med Bay. He’s angrier at Snake, however, for being such an idiot.

Snake is rotating his knife, pressing the point of the blade to his forefinger. After a few moments of careful consideration, he sets the blade at the center of his chest and begins to cut. _That’s quite enough of that_ , Kaz thinks. He barrels out from the underbrush and makes his presence known.

“ _Boss_ , what the hell are yo-” he gets halfway through saying before Snake spins on his heel and jabs the knife right between his shoulder-blades. It’s clearly out of instinct more than any kind of malice, so Kaz freezes and tries to catch Big Boss’ distracted, flickering gaze. It’s hard to look at his face, however, when Kaz can now see what exactly it was Snake was doing with the knife: he’s cut the shape of his fake scar - _her_ scar - back into his torso. Shallow, but with the obvious intent of making it deeper and deeper until it actually stuck. _What the_ actual _fuck!?_

Snake looks at him like he doesn’t recognize him. Kaz slowly begins to raise his hands in surrender.

“Hey, Boss, look - I’m not gonna do anything. Just take the knife outta my face, okay?” As his hands crawl past his shoulder, he snaps out one arm to grab the knife. He gets his hand on the hilt, but Snake twists in his grasp, taking Kaz’s _entire body_ with him. Kaz keeps his grip steady even as his wrist turns in _exactly_ the right direction to send a throbbing stab of pain all the way up to his elbow. He grabs the knife with his other hand too, his palm overlapping with the blade, skin pierced as he tries to grapple the weapon away from his Boss.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Kaz grunts as he attempts to wrest for control of the knife. “I can’t fucking _believe_ \- Snake, you’re nearly _fourty_ and I’ve gotta babysit you like thi-!” Big Boss sweeps out his leg and kicks Kaz’s feet out from under him. Kaz keeps a firm grip on the knife hilt and tries to catch his left foot on the ground, but the mud is too slippery and he goes hurtling towards the ground butt first. Luckily, he manages to take Snake with him and the two of them go tumbling and rolling over each other until they come to a stop at the edge of camp, Kaz straddling his Boss and the knife pointing straight at his own neck. 

There’s a dangerous, feral look in Snake’s eye that Kaz doesn’t like, especially when he starts forcefully twisting their wrists to bring the knife closer to Kaz’s bulging jugular. He doesn’t think that Snake would kill him, is _definitely certain_ that he trusts Snake _not_ to kill him - even by accident - but the tip of the blade is getting awful close to his skin. Kaz jerks his head out of the way and plunges down to bite into Snake’s exposed forearm. He takes way too much flesh into his mouth, but he holds on until he tastes the copper burn of blood. The knife slices into his shoulder and he keeps biting until Snake grunts and fumbles the weapon onto his chest. 

His hands free, Snake fists his fingers in Kaz’s overgrown hair and yanks hard. Kaz cries out, forced to loose his vice grip on Snake’s arm. He thrusts the heel of his palm into Snake’s face, shoving hard at his mouth and the bottom of his nose to put some distance between them. They struggle like this for a few seconds - like boys on the schoolyard instead of trained military men - until Snake rolls his knees and throws Kaz off of him. Kaz reaches out to loop his fingers in Snake’s belt and holds on with a death grip so that when Snake tries to struggle to his feet, he’s dragged down by Kaz’s weight. Snake grabs the front of Kaz’s uniform in turn and they wrestle in the mud until he manages to force them standing.

Snake hasn’t even been using CQC - just pure, instinctual movement: what, in the moment, will most wound, most allow him to _escape_. Kaz briefly wonders if he’s seeing a glimpse of what Snake was like before The Boss molded him into the best facsimile of a human being she could manage. 

He lets Snake get them the rest of the way standing because he knows he fights best on his feet. It turns out to have been a miscalculation; the Barranquilla camp was built on the edge of a deep ditch - for tactical purposes, of course, to give the troops an easy place to duck into if anyone came snooping. As he and Snake teeter to their feet, Kaz’s right heel goes off the edge of the ditch and _down_ they go.

Kaz hits every goddamn rock and branch on the way to the bottom. His sunglasses fly off at some point during the flight, but he keeps a tight grip on Snake’s belt. They roll to a stop: Kaz back-flat in a deep puddle and Snake still holding on to the front of his fatigues. Snake pulls back for a moment and Kaz winces, certain that he’s about to get a thorough beating for his trouble. Instead, Snake slowly lowers his body to rest his forehead on Kaz's shoulder. He’s breathing heavily, and not just from the exertion. Kaz cautiously raises one of his hands and sets a flat palm over the burning-hot curve of his bare shoulder. The man is shaking like a leaf.

“Boss?”

Snake’s response is too quiet and muddled to be audible. Kaz - _very carefully_ \- allows his fingers to splay and curl around Snake’s upper arm. He feels a little like he’s following advice about bear attacks: lay still, no sudden movements. Gotta move slow and think quick to escape a mauling.

“Look, Boss - I know that what happened - it really shook you. It shook all of us. But you especially, for different reasons. You’ve gotta -”

"I've got to _what_?" Snake’s head snaps up suddenly and he fixes Kaz with a fierce, one-eyed stare. “Hn - Kaz, if you’re so damn smart,” he _growls_ , “then tell me: what should I do?”

Kaz’s eyes pull wide because there is… there _sounds_ like there’s a very thin sliver of sincerity in that question. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. What is he supposed to say?

“Tell me…” the fight goes out of Snake’s voice. It cracks as he rasps out: “... tell me… _Kaz… tell me what to do_.”

He looks utterly lost, almost _childlike_. Kaz’s heart clenches up when he looks at him - teeth bared, but terror in his eye. His hands are trembling where they’re fisted in the fabric of Kaz’s shirt. This is a man who spent the first half of his life following orders from the government and the second half of his life imagining that he was following the ghost of a dead woman’s words. Cut free in the wind like this he has no idea where to go, who to be. It hurts to look at him: his shaggy hair is stringy and askew from the rain, his eye-patch is pushed aside from their fight exposing his scarred flesh, all the age and pain weighing on his features and cutting deep lines into his wolfish face. He’s terrifying, he’s _broken_ and worn out and _magnifice_ -

Kaz feels the breath go out of him, the world fall out beneath him... he's never felt this way about someone before, like he’s feeling Snake’s pain first-hand. It settles between his lungs and winds through his chest, a vice clutched around his ribs cranking tighter and tighter and _tighter_ until he can’t breathe and he’s thinking confused, desperate thoughts, like would it be possible to reach down Snake’s throat and yank all the pain out of him? How can you touch this man in a way that gets through his reptile-thick skin? Big Boss is one layer of alligator leather over one layer of glass. There’s a wound punched out in him right now, but Kaz can’t tell if it’s void or fire underneath. He wants to reach out and touch Snake’s face, rip off the eye-patch and see what the hell he’s hiding under there, kiss him and get lost - or immolated - in the storm that rages inside of him. He wants to rake marks into his back so deep that they dwarf all the damage Peace Walker did to him, wants to make a scar that _sticks_ , to let Big Boss mark him up in return, so bad that no one could ever mistake where he _belongs_ -

 _No_ , Kaz catches himself before he gets carried away. _No_ \- that’s exactly the wrong thing to do right now, to reach out and cater to Snake’s animal side like that. He has to appeal to his human side. He has to bring him back, back from the void even though he's trembling on the edge of it too, fighting the temptation to get just as lost Snake is in the darkness of his own legendary shadow.

Kaz cups his free hand over Snake’s: loose, but comforting, allowing his thumb to rub gentle lines along the heel of his left palm. and he says: “Boss... you… you keep doing what you’ve _been_ doing.”

Snake stares at him steadily, breathing still ragged.

“You’re already forging your own path - you have your own dream, your own destiny. The Boss was only human, and so are you. Live for yourself and create the world you’ve envisioned for people like us. The men need you, Boss - that’s proof enough to me.”

Snake’s gaze wanders. He glances to the side with a sharp intake of breath. Kaz tightens his grip around his hands, makes Snake look at him again.

“And you won’t be alone. I-” _I’ll follow you anywhere. I’ll stay by your side always_. “- I’ll be there to help you out every step of the way. I’m with you, and so are the men. The MSF is with you. It’s your home.”

Finally, Snake lets him go. He presses his eye shut for a moment and catches his breath, then rolls off Kaz so that the two of them are lying side by side in the sludge, close enough Kaz can still hear him breathing.

Kaz holds up a hand to shield his eyes from the rain. He watches the water come down in rivets through the criss-crossing greenery of the jungle canopy, listens to it slice through the air and hit the water around him in soothing, rhythmic plip-plops. This is a little nostalgic, Kaz thinks. The first time he and Snake ( _sort of_ ) fucked was in a storm like this. He’s still flying high off the dizzying hit of empathy - it’s exhilarating and also kind of horrifying. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, he doesn’t know what to do with his _heart_.

The first thing he thinks when his head clears is: _What the hell? Am I in love with him?_

The second thing he thinks is: _I’ve gotta tell him about Zero and Cipher - Paz and Zadornov - before it’s too late_.

Kaz quickly banishes both thoughts as impossible and impractical. Cutting Zero loose was not an option until ZEKE was finished. Telling Snake about the deal was not an option until Zero was already out of the picture. _All in good time, Kazuhira. You’ve got this under control._

He gradually becomes aware of the fact that Snake is staring at him. Rather intently, at that, with a weird sort of half-smile plastered all over his face. Something very subtle has changed; he’s returned, all the way this time. Kaz stares back, startled.

“Wh-what… what is it?”

“You know… I’ve never actually felt... _relieved_ to have spared someone’s life before.”

“Boss?”

“I’m talking about you, Kaz.”

“I _know_. But, you mean… right now?”

Snake’s smile fills all the way in. _Oh_. “Mmm. But also back when we first met. It didn’t hit me until right now what a truly good decision it was to not kill you.”

“Wow, Boss, I’m flattered.” Kaz tries to make it sound sarcastic, but it’s not. 

Big Boss laughs - one or two congested chuckles - then he instinctively pats down his chest, looking for his cigars. He looks at himself and seems shocked by the fact that he’s naked from the waist up.

“You threw your shirt off outside of camp,” Kaz points out helpfully as he starts to push to his feet. His arms feel like noodles: he’s covered in scrapes and scraps, his shoulder is bleeding, he feels all emotionally out of whack… Snake gets upright first and he yanks Kaz the rest of the way by the collar of his uniform.

“Come on - let's find your sunglasses.”

They collect their stray accessories and limp back to the cabin arm in arm. Snake shakes the water out of his zippo so that he can light up a lantern and - more importantly - a cigar. Kaz fiddles with his radio to make sure it wasn’t broken in the fall. The old shack’s always gotten shitty reception, so he heads out the back entrance to call Mother Base.

“Hey Boss - want me to tell Morpho to wait for the storm to pass, or are you desperate to get home soon as we’re done?”

Snake’s kicked back in his old chair, twirling a crumpled, slightly damp cigar between his fingers. Its burning laboriously, the smoke sputtering towards the nearest open window. “I think I’ll camp out here for the night. Need some time alone. Need some peace and quiet.”

Kaz nods, “yeah, that’s… that’s what I thought. We’ll pop by and get you in the morning, so stay put.”

“Kaz -”

Kaz swings around in the open doorway, one hand on the frame. Snake tips his head to look at him, face all shadows and orange light.

“You can stay.”

The words feel like they go in straight through his knife wound and all of a sudden his heart is hammering again. Kaz takes an inventory of reasons he needs to go back to base: his filthy, sopping wet clothes, his physical condition, the work sitting on his desk, the beer waiting in the mess hall, the fact that he promised himself when this all started that he wouldn’t be stupid enough to let it get serious and this seems kind of serious, this seems like kind of a big deal. _It’s an easy enough trap to step around, Kazuhira. All you have to do is walk out this door, go back to the base. Step out of his aura until the feeling passes_.

Kaz runs a hand through his damp hair, but it just falls back in his face again. He hovers in the doorway, the rain at his back and the inviting scent of kerosene and cigar smoke warming his face. Snake is looking at him expectantly; in retrospect, his words sounded less like an invitation and more like an order.

Kaz sighs and leans against the door-frame, his smile equal measures contentment and resignation. 

“Yeah, Boss,” he says. “Of course I’ll stay.”

**(FROM THE PERSONAL RECORDS OF E.  
ANKARA, NOON, JUNE 31 1998)**

[CLICK]

[the sound of a busy street. clang of utensils, people ordering food in turkish and kurmanji; a hot drink being poured into a cup, sugar and milk stirred in. someone pulls up a chair and sits down. they sound heavy, solid. it’s a woman who speaks first, in russian.]

“Thank you for meeting with me like this.”

“I assume this isn’t a social call.”

“I think the time that you would accept an earnest invitation to dinner from me is long past.”

“You’re right.”

[beat of silence]

“So this is about our former friend. Or rather what his subordinates have been doing in his stead.”

“Yes, in part. But it’s _your_ friend that I want to talk about today. You know the one I mean.”

“Mmm.”

“You... don’t sound surprised.”

“This isn’t the first time he’s gone running around behind my back. I’ll be surprised if it’s the last.”

“And you haven’t gone investigating yourself yet because...?”

“Kaz has a penchant for melodrama when he feels that his pride has been damaged. Whatever it was, I guessed it would be big enough to find its way back to me eventually. I thought it would be Adam who came to me first.”

“Adam’s the one who fished it out. Almost immediately, actually. He has his reasons for sitting on it for now, but I thought...” 

“Eva?”

“John, before I tell you anything I need you to be honest with me. About what you gain from keeping him so close.”

“He’s more useful than you think. I’d have to hire ten people to do his job, and even then they’d fall short. I appreciate that cunning of his - he’s always had a talent for making himself vital in desperate situations.”

“Adam said something similar back in the 80’s. _‘I would have had him killed by now, but he’s the only one who knows where the money is’_. Shameless.”

“Hnh. I thought that you _liked_ him.”

“It’s more that I... _recognize_ him. We might operate under different branches, but we’re both professional liars. I can’t fault him his survival instinct, but I can fault him for the particular form it’s taken this time.”

[the sound of slick paper sliding across the fabric of a tablecloth as a folder is passed from one diner to the other. the folder is snatched back at the last second.]

“Eva...”

“Like I said - before I tell you what’s he’s done, I need to know why. I need to know what you’re going to do with this.”

[this bit of silence stretches on for some time. shuffling fabric, the click-hiss of a lighter. one long exhale. the other diner takes a sip from her cup.]

“The idea of a military without borders... that battle reveals to you not your enemies or allies, but your comrades. Kaz is proof of that.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“It’s not like you to get sentimental like that.”

“It’s not sentimentality. If he hadn’t come back, I still wouldn’t have had him killed.”

“You think killing him is admitting defeat?”

“There’s no reason for it. He’s more likely to accidentally misstep and hang himself from his own rope than he is to seriously hamper our operations. He’s a brilliant negotiator and businessman, but he’s very narrow-minded when it comes to personal vendettas.”

“... John...”

“Eva, you’re really the last person in the world who should purport to protect me from a disloyal lover.”

[the woman inhales sharply. it’s a deeply wounded sound. there is a very thin sound of fine-china shuddering against itself; someone’s hand trembling violently with a tea-cup held in it. after a minute, she speaks.]

“The only thing I’ve ever wanted to protect you from, John, is yourself.” 

“...”

“And to that end, I don’t regret anything I’ve done.”

“Is that what you tell yourself to justify your complicity in Zero and Clark’s sick experiment?”

“I’m not like you. I don’t need to tell myself _anything_ in order to live with my ghosts. I walk with my back to them. I wish you would join me.”

“This is below you. You know that’s a futile invitation.”

“Of course it is. You can’t put a leash on me, so how could you ever trust me?”

[the second speaker stands up suddenly, shoving his chair back with a harsh grind of metal on pavement.]

“We’re done here, Eva. Show me what’s in the letter or leave.”

[the woman laughs softly, sadly.]

“It’s always good to see you, John.”

[CLICK]

**1998**

“Commander Miller?”

Kaz glances up from his desk to see a soldier standing in the doorway holding a leather envelope. The man is young, medium-skinned, well-kepmt, but with a thick, filled-in beard obscuring his finer features. His accent is hard to trace, Kurdish maybe? Definitely Intel Team, but a field agent judging from the faint tan-line visible beneath his shirt-cuff.

“Some letters for you show up this morning. Redirected from... Japan?”

Kaz doesn’t satisfy the soldier’s curiosity by acting like it’s anything out of the ordinary. He looks at his paper-work and waves absently. “Put it on my desk,” he says, mildly. 

He knows that of the high ranking ZL officers, he’s the one the soldiers are most curious about. Master Miller’s openness is a different kind of puzzle: pleasant manner, open door, no code-name. Everyone else in Big Boss’ walled nation has something to hide, something to run from. Kaz knows that he’s made himself suspicious this way, but he doesn’t care. All of his demons are locked in here with him.

The soldier salutes and leaves. Kaz waits until his footsteps disappear down the hall before opening the package and shaking out the contents. Two letters, one in an unmarked, yellow envelope. A _FOXHOUND_ missive? Interesting.

The other one is from a _D. Reese_. Kaz’s breath catches and he glances up at his door surreptitiously before even touching it. How the _hell_ did David get a hold of his Yokosuka P.O. Box? Kaz shoots an accusatory glare at the unmarked envelope; Roy Campbell had always been shockingly bad at keeping secrets for a Black Ops veteran.

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Kaz mutters chidingly as he carefully tears along the seal of the letter, “you really have no idea what’s good for you.”

The first thing that falls out of the envelope is a photograph. Kaz picks it up and examines it beneath the light: it’s a picture of DD standing beside a river with a rainbow trout clutched in his jaw. The back of the photograph says - in neat, narrow handwriting - _DD, Kaniksu, January 1997_. The letter itself is three pages long.

Kaz unfolds the paper, raising an amused eyebrow at David’s indefatigable forthrightness. He twirls the letter between two of his mechanical fingers so that he doesn’t smudge the ink, trying to decide if he should read it or burn it. - _honestly, Kazuhira, you’re flattering yourself. He’s just lonely_.

The letter opens: _I put DD down myself. Figured that’s how he would have wanted it. You too._

Yup. Definitely lonely. Kaz sighs - that’s how V would have wanted it as well. Kaz had denied Venom Snake’s request that he take DD initially. That dog was the only thing he had in the entire world, the only thing he’d ever had that really, truly was _his_. Kaz felt like an imposter taking that from him. _The only reason you trusted me was the shadow of a much more complicated feeling that didn’t even belong to you_. He couldn’t place the emotion that ultimately made him take the old dog in the end. Not quite affection… it was something more like guilt. Duty.

Kaz reads on: _I moved to Canada. Small cabin just north of Banff, near the mouth of Lake Minnewanka_. David describes the landscape in rich, loving detail - is obviously quite taken with the mountains, the slow-coming spring and long autumn, the majesty of Alberta’s ancient pine forests. David talks about the wilderness with the same sort of poetry and desire that Kaz used to use to describe women’s bodies when he was trying to get laid. His connection to it is more spiritual than primal - unlike his father, Kaz doesn’t worry that David is going to walk out into the woods one day and disappear completely. A shame, really, because he’d probably be a happier man if he did.

David is obviously treading water in the letter. He dedicates most of the first and second page to a clipped, but nonetheless rambling, discussion of Konrad Lorenz’s _On Aggression_ and associated criticism. The reason for David’s continued fixation on the nature of violence becomes clear halfway through page two: _Roy Campbell sent a messenger to my door four days ago. He wants me to come back for an Operation. It’s a big one._

Kaz looks at the unmarked envelope on his desk and frowns. So that’s what’s happening. It’s sooner than he and Big Boss had anticipated. They still had a few dominoes to set up before they were ready to flick the first one down, so it’s good that both Roy and David were foolish enough to put the ball in “Master Miller’s” court like this. Kaz chews his lip and keeps reading.

_I wrote a personal ad like you suggested. Put it in the envelope. Drove out two hours to the post office. Didn’t send it._

_I realized one night that killing an animal is more complicated to me_

_~~emotionally, philosophically I mean~~ _

_than shooting a human being. That’s probably a sign that my retirement should be permanent. But I still dream about him almost every night._

_The job that Roy’s asked me to do…_

_Whatever you think, Master Miller, I don’t hang on your every word. But I would appreciate your advice._

A voice interrupts Kaz as he reads.

“Does the Boss know that you’re in correspondence with Solid Snake?”

Kaz jumps in his seat and drops the letter. The pages flutter to his feet as he looks up to see Gray Fox leaning against the door-frame of his office. When his nerves settle, the first thing that occurs to him is that Fox can’t read from that far across the room- how did he know the letter was from David?. He tips his sunglasses down to show Fox his narrowed, suspicious eyes.

“... were you tampering with my mail?”

Gray Fox shrugs. “I see a lot of things.” It was true - Fox had a way of slipping through the background unheard, unnoticed. An in-learned trait from what must have been a difficult childhood as an obvious half-white in a country that had literally been split in two by a decade of brutal American interference. Kaz certainly didn’t envy Fox his childhood, but sometimes he wonders what he would have turned out like if his hair colour had given him anonymity instead of the _other_ thing.

“Are you going to tell him?”

Fox tips his head. “Are you?”

The stare each other down for a moment. It’s Fox who breaks the silence. “... how is Snake?”

“You’re seriously asking?”

“He’s my friend,” Fox says simply. Kaz wheels his chair back and scoops up the scattered pages of David’s letter.

“I didn’t get all the way through. Want me to read it out loud to you?”

Gray Fox doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even move, just stares at Kaz with his arms tightly crossed and his head tipped to one side. It’s impossible to get a reaction out of him, Kaz doesn’t know why he even tries anymore.

With a studious groan, Kaz kicks back out of his chair and slings his camo-jacket over one shoulder. “Brig duty?”

Fox nods, and that’s it. He turns around and pads silently down the hall, expecting Kaz to follow him without question. And he will - this is their job, after all. No matter how many they bring in, Big Boss still goes and sees each captured soldier - each _POW_ \- personally. The ones that live through it? Well, lucky them… the next day, they get to talk to Big Boss’ lieutenants, who are far more merciful. Live through that? Then they were hired.

Kaz and Fox head down three flights of concrete stairs - down far enough that the air gets dry and chilly - and past three locked security checkpoints that only they and Big Boss have access to. The stench of human waste hits them in the face the moment the last door slides open - oily, thick and undercut by the sharp, rotten scent of old blood. Fox walks ahead and checks each cell, shaking his head. Once, twice… all the way to the last cell. Only one man alive; this bunch had been willful, _patriotic_. Kaz glances at the corpses in the cells as he breezes by. All young men from the CIS, not a single one older than twenty-five and all from different ethnicities. Kids fighting to keep their freedom in a post-Soviet Asia. Kaz almost feels bad for them, but if the Boss couldn’t convince them, there was no hope.

When Kaz strides confidently into the last cell, Fox already has his fingers clutched in the bag covering the prisoner’s head.

Kaz swipes his sunglasses off and hooks them in the collar of his tank-top. It’s useful to be able to switch between being perceived as white and _not_ white with such a simple gesture. A place like Zanzibar Land is the only place in the entire world where such a thing could perversely be considered an asset. With his game face on, he nods subtly and Fox yanks the bag off.

The young soldier is already nervous and primed for another interrogation. He pants frantically for air, getting unfettered mouthfuls of it for the first time in probably eight hours. His swollen eyes blink against the harsh light. It’s hard to tell what he really looks like beneath the cuts and bruises. He’s a bit older than the others, probably their commander. Most of the damage is from the battle: he’s got a nasty burn hidden underneath a trail of blackened abrasions along one side of his face, a good indicator that he’d been caught too close to a grenade or landmine. Big Boss rarely resorted to physical torture when he talked to the POWs, rarely _had_ to. He was the kind of man that when he talked, you listened. You knew immediately that he was the kind of man who never issued an empty threat.

Kaz waits until the prisoner’s eyes adjust to the light. Fox gradually rounds the cell, tapping the handle of his machete on the back of the chair as he goes to alert the prisoners to its presence. The prisoner’s shallow breathing evens out and he focuses his vision, first on Kaz and then - with a nervous flutter - on Gray Fox. Kaz puts one hand on his waist, paints on a grin and leans forward.

“You ready to play nice?”

The prisoner looks back to Kaz, eyes wide. Very slowly, he nods.

“Good. Let’s start with the easy stuff,” Kaz holds out his hand to Gray Fox, gesturing without breaking eye contact with the POW. Fox takes a water bottle out of his waist-pouch and tosses it over. “Who do you fight for?”

“Ar… armed forces of… the Commonwealth of… Independent States...”

“Uh uh,” Kaz holds up the water bottle and gives it a suggestive little shake. “Is that really the answer you meant to give?”

The man’s mouth falls open at the sight of fresh water sloshing around in the plastic confines of the container. It’s beyond desire or thirst - he eyes the bottle with unabashed lust.

“I fight for… you,” the prisoner corrects himself. Kaz hums approvingly and pulls a dirty rag out of his pants pocket. It’s not good to give everything away all at once, Kaz has learned over the years, the same way it’s no good to go all-in with the pain right away either. He’s developed an elegant, _clean_ methodology since his first fumbling forays into interrogation back in the 80’s. Even Ocelot wouldn’t find anything to criticize, although the old sadist would probably try.

“Mmm hmm. Anything a man says sounds sincere after so long without food and water. I’m gonna need you to extrapolate a bit - what was it that convinced you, exactly?”

It obviously takes the man a formidable amount of willpower to tear his eyes from the water and turn back to Kaz. The appropriate amount of willpower. That was test number one.

“I…” the man smacks his dry lips together, trying to find enough moisture in his mouth so that his words do not stick together. He closes his eyes for a moment, putting real thought and consideration into the question. “... my grandfather fights for the Russian Army in the Great War. Then he fights for the Red Army against the White Army, kills his friends. I did the same - entered the army when we were the USSR. Now we are the CIS. Letters that don’t mean anything. Your leader… he said that here… we fight for _ourselves_ and each other.”

Kaz nods, impressed. It’s a good answer. An honest answer. This guy won’t be a problem. He tips the water bottle and soaks the cloth. Then he holds it over the prisoner’s upturned face and wrenches the water out of it. The man desperately laps it off his lips and chin, so dehydrated that even a few drops of filthy, recycled rainwater is like mana from heaven to him. Fox paces behind him as he drinks and cuts him free. Kaz twists the cloth until it’s nearly dry.

The prisoner puts his freed hands in his lap and turns them over, examines them. His wrists are bloody and bruised from where he’d pulled against his bonds the first few days. After a few moments, he looks up at Kaz, his eyes glassy and wet.

“Who… who is he?” the prisoner asks in a low, quivering voice. His tone is full of terror and awe. “The man with one eye?”

Kaz puts his face close to the prisoner’s. The man smells horrendous - four days of stewing in his own shit and sweat… the scent was bad enough when they opened the door, but standing this close to him, it’s almost unbearable. 

Kaz carefully keeps his expression neutral as he says: “you know who he is.”

The man whispers: “Saladin. _Big Boss_.”

Kaz’s lip quirks a bit bitter at that. He remembers when Snake balked at being compared to El Che, but he accepted the mantle of _this_ legendary crusader without complaint. How things change with the times.

Kaz offers him a hand, his prosthetic hand. The man takes it. “What’s your name?” Kaz asks kindly.

The prisoner struggles to speak. “Se… _Serik_.”

Kaz tightens his grip on the man’s hand - too tight, just enough to be uncomfortable - and twists. “No, no -” he chides. “ You’re outside heaven, now. We don’t use civilian names here. Your _nom de guerre_ \- if you don’t have one, you don’t belong here.”

The implication in those words translates clearly, even without the steady presence of Gray Fox’s machete at his back. The man’s eyes go wide and terrified for a moment- he sputters out a few words in Kazakh.

“ _үкі көз_ ,” he says. “ _Owl Eyes_.”

“You’re a sniper?”

He nods. Kaz yanks him to his feet, steadies him and then helps him walk the distance of the cell. “You can never have enough snipers,” he says honestly, patting the man on the back. He leads Owl Eyes out into the hall where he can see that he is the only survivor, and that because of that, he is now free.

“Welcome to Zanzibar Land, Owl Eyes,” Kaz tells him. “Welcome _home_.”

*

Later - after the cells have been cleaned and the paper-work is all in order, Kaz takes a break. He steps out into the humid, sticky air of a clear, Zanzibar Land mid-morning and lights his kiseru. It’s an antique at this point, his very last souvenir from his mother. He’s never been a habitual smoker - the body is a temple and all that - but lately he’s been turning to tobacco to quiet his nerves.

The light falls in thick beams between the gaps in the jungle canopy, lighting up the damp ground. The air is heavy with the scent of gunpowder and swamp water. The construction of ZL HQ was done quickly, efficiently and with as little impact on the surrounding ecosystem as possible, so that it doesn’t show up on satellite spy photos. The only place scoured raw is the cliffside near the Tower Building, where they had to mine for scrap metal to finish Metal Gear.

It’s beautiful, but living here required a certain amount of cognitive dissonance. Sometimes looking at the jungle skyline makes a jolt of anger rock through Kaz’s body. It’s an old, worn feeling - one that’s almost like a comfort, an artefact from the time he cloaked himself in rage, put it on each morning like a suit of armour. It’s _beautiful_ but - 

\- Tselinoyarsk is a wonder of nature. An untouched paradise thriving against all odds at the chaotic heart of Eurasia. This is where Snake earned the title ‘Big Boss’. This is where his youth ended, where he left behind the name ‘Jack’, where he died once and was reborn something a little less and a little more human. Everyone in Zanzibar Land lives beneath the shadow of that experience, even if they don’t know it. Sometimes Kaz bends under the weight of it. He looks at Snake in the wrong light and sees it all: the delusion, the self absorption, the futility of chasing one moment for your entire life to diminishing returns…

Kaz can’t critique: he has his own enshrined moment, one that he holds close to his heart against all rational objection. But it feels like it’s slipping through his fingers, a little bit more every day.

The tobacco begins to taste ashy. Kaz stamps it down with his metal thumb, then taps it out over the edge of the balcony. As he’s tucking the pipe into his coat and turning to go back inside, the door slides open and out stumbles Doctor Drago Pettrovich Madnar, wide-eyed, wild haired and over-dressed for the weather.

Kaz reels to a stop and the Doctor almost trips into him.

“C-Commander Miller.”

Kaz works hard to smile. “Doctor Madnar.”

“I was looking for you,” Madnar says.

Kaz takes a few steps back to lean against the railing of the observation deck. Madnar wipes his brow against the late autumn heat and pushes up the sleeve of his shirt’s right arm. “I just had a meeting with… with Big Boss.”

“I know,” Kaz replies. Madnar met with Big Boss personally - a _rare_ privilege - once every three days to update him on Metal Gear D’s progress. It was Kaz who had written that schedule.

“He said that this time in the morning, I’d find you here. He… ah, certainly does know your habits. _Impeccably_.”

Madnar says that last part with a strange hitch in his tone - half judgement, half humility. Kaz is used to that - those strange looks, something one part homophobia, two parts fear. He makes no secret of the fact that he and Big Boss come and go from each other quarters at odd hours, often makes a _show_ of looking luridly disheveled from time to time even if all he and Snake did was talk. It’s been useful to avoid quashing the rumours that have always followed them. It keeps the soldiers on their toes around the “Hell Master” - Big Boss is almost like a religious figure to them: what does that make the man who occasionally shares his bed?

“Don’t waste my time, Doctor Madnar. What do you need?”

Madnar’s eyes circle the landscape. When he finally works up the courage to look at Kaz’s face, his gaze keeps flickering to the mechanism that connects the wrist of his bionic prosthetic to his fake hand.

“I have heard that you plan to… fund an old colleague of mine?”

 _Right_ \- Kio Marv was a bright, _optimistic_ , Czech scientist who seemed to believe himself well on the way to solving the global energy crisis. Kaz had - at Big Boss’ request - orchestrated a pretty impressive stack of Very Believable dummy companies to funnel most of Anderson’s government money into funding his research, making certain that he was under the thumb of Zanzibar Land whether he knew it or not.

“Oh,” Kaz grins brightly and not entirely insincerely. “You know Doctor Marv?”

“We studied together at the Prague Academy.”

“And you’re concerned about us funding him because…?”

Madnar wrenches a hand around his wrist, above his knock-off-brand wrist watch. It takes him a long time to answer. “Do you and Big Boss really understand what you are doing, Commander Miller?”

Kaz raises an eyebrow at Madnar’s nerve. The Doctor wilts a bit under the incredulous gaze. 

“I know... that neither of you are _scientists_ , so perhaps you do not understand the full application potential of Marv’s work…”

“We understand _exactly_ the potential of his work, Doctor Madnar, otherwise we wouldn’t have sought him out. He intends to supply the world with a cheap, low-impact alternative to oil. That’s the kind of thing that could change the world.”

“ _‘Change’_ the world…” Madnar repeats slowly. “ _Change_ it or… more than likely, it will destabilize it.”

“Oh, _really_?” Kaz drawls, nodding condescendingly.

Madnar taps the pads of his fingers together nervously. “The implications of this technology… in a world so unbalanced as ours is… it is like…” Madnar stumbles in his speech, searching for some sort of english word or metaphor to explain the shape and meaning of what his native tongue is spelling out in his head.

“It is like the death penalty,” Madnar says finally. Kaz gives him a curious look, permission to continue. “Ah… the death penalty at its heart is not so bad an idea, yes?” Madnar twists the knuckle of his left forefinger, cracking it. “There are some people who commit crimes so heinous that it would be irresponsible to allow them to continue to live. But who is it who metes out this justice? Is it God? No, it is the same fallible, fragile human beings who committed the crimes in the first place, and therein lies the flaw. Do you really want to give a world with governments like _America_ and the former USSR that kind of power?”

Kaz keeps his smile wide, but he is aware that it loses some of its ease and charm. “Doctor Madnar,” he says with clipped politeness. “What makes you think we’re giving that power to _them_?”

Madnar tips his head to one side and strokes a hand through his beard, inquisitive. Kaz pushes off the balcony railing and closes the distance between him and Madnar, lording his height over the scientist.

“The Boss and I are interested in Marv’s work for, I admit, _entirely_ selfish reasons. If he’s doing his research on Zanzibar Land’s dime, he’s going to have to pay the piper back eventually. He’s tucked right into our front pocket whether he wants to be or not.”

Madnar is genuinely frightened. Kaz can tell, because he can’t stop himself from looking at Kaz’s right hand. His eyes twitch in time with every slight movement of the bionic fingers. “Are you implying that you… intend to blackmail him?”

Kaz laughs. “I never _imply_ when it comes to blackmail, Doctor. You’re right: that power doesn’t belong in the hands of any of the world’s irresponsible governments. That’s why we’re gonna take it for ourselves. _Destabilization_ is the least of the damage it’s gonna cause.”

Doctor Madnar is backed against the wall, the morning sun turning his ruddy, wrinkled skin yellow as all the natural colour drains from it. Kaz is still smiling - it’s easier than he thought it would be, to be the person Big Boss needs. It always is.

“Why did you come to me, Doctor Madnar?” Kaz asks.

“I thought…” Madnar doesn’t finish.

“You thought that I was the more reasonable one,” Kaz finishes for him.

The desolation in Madnar’s expression proves that assumption correct. Kaz steps back and runs a hand through his long hair, shaking his head with over-played disbelief.

“You’re a brilliant scientist, Doctor Madnar,” he says before brushing past him and through the door. “But you’ve got a seriously _shit_ read on people.”

*

Sometimes when Kaz catches himself in a mirror, or a pane of glass, he feels an intense sense of dysphoria. He’s mostly couched it out of his physical mannerisms: he no longer walks with an exaggerated limp, remembers most of the time that his right hand is an option again. He’d gone thirteen years a cripple, over a decade adjusting to the new weight of his body and cadence of his step. Back when he’d first shrugged on his clothes without the help of a medical aide, donned his crutch and limped down that treacherous flight of stairs to hit the flight deck of Mother Base 2.0 on his own, he’d never thought that ten years later he’d be wearing his plastic leg and empty sleeve as a _mark_ of pride, rather than as a coping mechanism to _spare_ his pride.

The adjustment to his new prosthetics was not as dramatic as his adjustment to disability had been, of course. It wasn’t bourne from trauma for one thing. Getting used to a new arm and leg reminded him of his first few months in America trying to perfect his Hollywood-California accent. He’d done well mimicking english movies, learning the art of _emphasis_ and _“smooth-talking”_. No one ever guessed that he wasn’t a native speaker even if he did sometimes stumble over a soft consonant or two.

What he’d quickly discovered was that spoken language wasn’t the only cultural identifier that marked people as different. His first year in college found him unconsciously bowing to people, pausing conversations due to body-language that other students seemed to find off-puttingly deferential. _“You don’t need to be so fucking polite all the time Benedict.”_

 _‘In Japan,’_ he’d always been tempted to say. _‘People find me brash and difficult.’_

Kaz goes through his daily routine, which - when things were quiet - is mostly to be seen in various places throughout the base, to remind the troops that even when Big Boss is pre-occupied with more important things, his eyes are all-seeing. 

He inevitablely ends up taking down a few comments from the troops every day - complaints, suggestions, etc.. He writes them down in his ledger and everything, to make his attentiveness look legitimate. One thing that’s never changed is that the men have an easier time voicing their editorial opinions to the Commander than to the Boss. Of course, Kaz trashes 90% of those opinions the moment he hears them - there’s no point bringing most of this shit to Snake, anyway. In these men and women's minds, Big Boss _knows best_. If he doesn’t heed their concerns, obviously their concerns were misplaced. This subtle method of information curation is one of the ways in which Kaz has managed to retain some measure of authority and control under Big Boss’ increasingly paranoid iron grip.

In the late afternoon, Kaz takes a long walk through the training course. There are a few tricks and traps here that take constant maintenance to go off properly. FOXHOUND had a reputation for training exercises that were occasionally sadistic in their brutality, but the regimens were all carefully crafted simulations. None of the danger was real. The same could not be said for Zanzibar Land’s training process. Only the strong survived out here in the hot, violent core of the world.

Kaz kicks the moss off the base of one of the rappel tower’s massive legs. It’s not an action that accomplishes anything, but Kaz really needs to be alone with his thoughts right now and he finds that it’s impossible to relax if he’s not at least giving the pretense of doing work. He grabs one of the ropes - gives it a tug to make sure it’s not the trick rope - and pulls himself up to the top rung of the tower with ease that’s still unfamiliar. At the top, he sprawls out face-up and stares at the forest’s thick roof.

After a few minutes, he slips David’s letter out from the inner pocket of his jacket. He reads it over once more, then takes out his zippo. He fiddles with the cap a few times before finally flicking it on and setting the flame to the bottom corner of the letter. He watches it burn against the backdrop of the dense jungle canopy and a darkening sky. Watches David’s words get eaten by the crackling embers, watches the blackened paper send thin columns of smoke towards the dying sun, takes in the coal-sharp smell of the flame minged with the scent of moss and foliage… it feels like premonition. If FOXHOUND’s caught the scent of Zanzibar Land, that means the PATRIOTs are ready to take them down again. No loyal-to-the-death shields this time, no decoys or diversionary operations to buy them time… this is their last line in the sand. 

Kaz doesn’t know what Snake’s thinking these days, his "Big Boss" act has become so infuriatingly impenetrable. He doesn’t know if Big Boss is throwing himself into the line of fire on purpose this time. After all, if Kaz has done his job correctly, the first foot Solid Snake sets onto their territory will also be the first step down his path to conversion. This is all part of the plan, to bring Big Boss’ chosen son into the fold - one more bullet in the chamber of the gun _John_ has aimed between the eyes of his old C.O.’s legacy.

\- of course, Kaz _didn’t_ do his job correctly. He’d fumbled so many plays with David that it was a wonder the kid was still talking to him.

_Whatever you think, Master Miller, I don’t hang on your every word..._

\- well, maybe the situation wasn’t _entirely_ unsalvageable -

_… but I would appreciate your advice..._

The question is… does Kaz really want to take advantage of that? To tug at the few hooks he’d managed to get under the kid’s skin? 

_No, no - that’s not the important question at all, Kazuhira._

Kaz lets the ash and burnt scraps of the letter cover him like snow. He presses his eyes shut and thinks: _Do I really want to die here?_

No, of course he doesn’t. He wants to die off the coast of Costa Rica, in March of 1975.

“Commander Miller?”

Kaz’s eyes snap open. He drops his hands, letting the last dregs of David’s destroyed letter flutter into the underbrush. It’s Gray Fox calling for him, no point trying to hide what he was doing when the man had probably been standing there watching him the entire time.

“The Boss is looking for you,” Fox says.

Kaz doesn’t look down. “If that’s true,” he says, “Snake should come get me himself.” It’s an old refrain between him and Fox at this point. It’s been over ten years and Kaz still can’t believe Big Boss would _dare_ send his messages second hand through his fucking _attack dog_.

It’s not that he’s jealous of Gray Fox - it would be pointless to be jealous of someone who was no threat to his position and, on top of that, had no ambitions to take it away. Gray Fox was, in Kaz’s opinion, a troubling symptom of Big Boss’ retreat into Solipsism, which was the kind of thing that didn’t bother Kaz when Big Boss kept him close enough that he could share the delusion. But Big Boss doesn’t keep anyone that close anymore, except Frank Jager.

Gray Fox was able to shadow Big Boss’ every footstep because he didn’t ask questions. It wasn’t that he didn’t _have_ questions - oh, no: Kaz has many times watched Jaeger’s jaw clench as he swallowed down objections. He’s watched disapproval burn in his cold, grey eyes. Frank Jaeger kept silent because he believed so deeply Big Boss owned his life that he didn’t care what Big Boss _did_ with it. That belief, Kaz knows, was intentionally and _carefully_ cultivated.

“... I can’t leave until you come with me,” Fox says.

“Big Boss can afford to wait for once in his goddamn life,” Kaz says, folding his hands over his stomach. _And I’m the only person he lets get away with it_ , he thinks, petulantly. Okay, maybe he was a little bit jealous.

Fox waits him out for a surprisingly long time. Kaz rolls into a sitting position and casts a look down in his direction. The pale man is crouching beneath the rappel tower, using his machete for balance as he stares at the remnants of David’s letter. Kaz sighs and shimmies off the tower’s top rung, hoisting himself to the ground in three powerful kicks off the segmented wall. He rubs the back of his neck when he hits the ground, wincing at how tender the muscles there are; the prosthetic puts intense strain on his shoulders, and he’s been wearing it more often than not recently.

He approaches Fox and crosses his arms. “Gonna sell me out after all?” he asks, confrontational.

Fox bounces gracefully to his feet, sheathing his machete in his belt. He shakes his head, expression neutral but not unkind. “It’s none of my business, Commander.”

“Don’t pull this shit with me,” Kaz snarls. “I’m not Big Boss. You obviously have an opinion.”

Fox lets his head loll to one side, glancing back at the burnt letter from the corner of his vision. From this angle, the crater of his defaced nose is all lit up - it’s so deep and dark that it’s like looking off the side of a ship and seeing into a deep-sea trench. All that’s in there is the back of his skull, but it looks a little you can see deeper than that. Gray Fox had an air of _emptiness_ about him. In battle, he was wild, vicious, arrogant, nearly _feral_ \- with all that turned off, it was like he had nothing else inside.

“Snake will come here no matter what you tell him,” Fox says evenly. “So there’s no point telling him otherwise.”

“You think I was gonna discourage him.”

“Yeah.”

Kaz snorts. “And you don’t think he’ll listen to me if I tell him to stay cozy in his cabin up north? He seemed pretty attached to his new life.”

“He’s like us,” Fox says distantly. “I don’t know… maybe it could be different for him, but I still think he’ll come. Zanzibar Land is calling to him, even if he doesn’t know where it is that his instincts are leading him. He’ll be drawn here like a foxhound who’s caught the scent of blood.”

“Just like the Boss’ other kids, huh,” Kaz grinds his teeth together. He’d won some small victories keeping guns out those children’s hands, but he still sees them every day hitching rides on the ammunition trucks, or getting into the missile silo while playing hide n’ seek. No one stops them from doing whatever they want, on Big Boss’ orders.

Fox brushes back his shaggy hair, showing the scabbed-over scars where his left ear used to be. “Once a child loses their parents to war, they’re marked by it. It makes them a soldier.”

“What about your ‘sister’, then?” Kaz asks, tone a bit more mocking that he intended. “The one the Boss is putting through school? Why is she in America doing her PhD in Advanced Genetics instead of here, with us?”

Fox flattens his pale lips, looks away, says nothing. Kaz chuckles.

“So even you’re a hypocrite.”

“Does it make you feel good to lash out like that?”

Kaz walks a few steps past Fox and kicks at the ground to hide the ashes of David’s letter beneath a scattering of dirt and ferns. “You know, _Frank_ , you work hard to make people think you’re like a weapon. Like you’re barely human. But how much of that self-objectification is survival mechanism, huh?” Kaz whirls around and adjusts his sunglasses so that they hide his eyes. “Would _you_ really be here if Gustava Heffner’s emigration papers had gone through?”

Fox’s eyes widen just the _tiniest_ bit. The faint wrinkles at their corners pull taut and his brow creases. “How do you know about Gustava?”

“Who do you think Big Boss referred your request to?” Kaz smiles. “Why don’t you think about _exactly_ the kind of work it is Big Boss asks _me_ to do.”

Gray Fox’s eyes flash bright and violent for just a moment. His hand inches towards the hilt of his machete, but he catches himself. “Big Boss is waiting for you outside the Eastern gate,” Fox hisses, working hard to couch the animal rage out of his tone.

Kaz waves him farewell with a jaunty flick of his wrist. _Yeah_ , he tells himself. _Of course it feels good to lash out like that_. How else did Gray Fox think he’s stayed sane all those years, caged in a fragile body that couldn’t fight like it used to?

Big Boss is waiting a few feet outside the Eastern gate, standing right at the edge of the mine-field. He’s not smoking, he’s not even really looking at anything - he’s just standing there with his arms in his coat pockets, his one eye unfocused on the horizon.

 _Oh,_ Kaz thinks and his heart skips a few beats. He comes up to stand beside Snake and puts his hands in his pockets too.

“Hey Boss, nice day, huh?”

Big Boss closes his eyes for a moment before looking at him. “Kaz,” he breathes. “Let’s go for a walk.”

*

They stop along the edge of a river. It’s beautiful, _peaceful_ \- far enough away from Command that you wouldn’t know you were standing in the middle of a highly militarized mercenary nation. The only sound for miles is the hum of mosquitoes and the whistling of birds flitting between the trees. The sun has dipped down towards the horizon, casting the landscape in red and orange light and making long shadows of the trees. Kaz can hear the faint roar of a waterfall in the distance.

A lovely place to die, he thinks.

“So. You found out.” He doesn’t turn to look at Big Boss. 

“Yeah. Not all of it, but enough.”

“Hmph. Wouldn’t have expected Ocelot to show so much restraint.”

“It was EVA, actually. She had faith that your conscience would get the better of you and that you’d confess once confronted.”

 _That_ hurts a bit, actually. Kaz thought that he and EVA had an understanding, a rapport. Of course, her first loyalty was - and always would be - to _“him”_. Kaz briefly imagines their positions reversed: would he have sold her out in turn? _Probably_ , he admits, but for completely different reasons. When Kaz speaks again, his voice is more strained than he anticipated.

“Let’s get it over with then.”

Big Boss doesn’t answer for a bit. Kaz can hear his zippo clicking in the silence. He lights up his cigar and takes a few drags before speaking. “I’m still trying to decide what to do with you.”

“Ha!” Kaz whirls around, barking out a cruel laugh. “What’s there to decide? You only have two options!”

“Kaz-”

“You either kill me, or you don’t. Those have always been your two choices when it comes to me. So come on - _do it_ , or let’s just forget all this and go home.”

Big Boss raises an eyebrow. Kaz makes a big show of looking him up and down.

“You didn’t bring a gun. Not even a knife.”

“Really, Kaz. I’ve killed hundreds of men who were strangers to me with my hands. Why would I kill _you_ with a gun.”

Kaz laughs again, a bit nicer this time. “You know, Boss - that’s almost sweet.”

Snake takes a deliberately long drag of his cigar, holding the smoke in his mouth for a few seconds before letting it spool out in a long, pale ribbon. He tips his head up just a bit and watches the smoke spiral towards the trees. In that moment, Kaz sees it: the hesitation shucks off him in layers. He’s come so far to build it all up again, _sacrificed_ so much… he had no intention of forgiving Kaz this time. 

By the time Big Boss looks at him again, Kaz is already shrugging off his jacket. He chuckles. “You’re going to fight me, Kaz?”

Kaz runs his flesh hand down the length of his prosthetic, letting his fingers catch in the rivets where the segments are attached. “I think I have a decent chance. Besides, you’d be disappointed if I didn’t.”

“Is that what you think? That I want to do this?”

“That you wanna do what? Kill me, or fight me?”

“Either.”

“Because,” Kaz says, shooting Big Boss a hard-eyed look as he ties his hair back into a ponytail. “You really, _really_ do.”

Big Boss tosses his cigar onto the river bank. He sheds his heavy trench-coat and rolls up the sleeves of his tight, black turtleneck. “Kaz,” he sighs. “You always like to talk as if you know me better than I know myself. But you’re the one who could benefit from some self-reflection.”

“I spend quite enough time with myself, Boss, don’t you worry about that.” _And quite enough time with you_. Kaz shifts his left foot back, steadying his stance. He’s got an advantage very few fighters have: his non-dominant arm is stronger than his main one. Maybe that’ll be enough to get him through this.

_If you “get through” this, then what, Kazuhira? What happens if you win?_

Kaz shakes that thought off. “C’mon, Boss. What’re you waiting for?”

Snake raises both of his eyebrows. “Hmm. Don’t I usually give you the first shot?”

“You’re seriously going to mock me at my own execution, Snake?”

Big Boss seems to take that under consideration. He kicks his trench-coat out of the way, then charges at Kaz with his fists up. Kaz pivots back, using the weight of his bionic leg to dig into the damp river-bank and root him in place. He parries Snake’s rapid punches blow for blow, then jabs for the throat and gets his flesh arm caught in the sturdy jaw of Snake’s battle-stance. He jams his other elbow between Snake’s arms and uses the raw strength of his prosthetic to pry them apart.

They’re both panting by the time they part. Kaz can see that Snake’s brow is covered in a thick sheen of sweat and he’s grinning like a madman. It’s perverse, that a fight to the death is putting him in a good mood, but Kaz can’t deny that he’s feeling a bit of that excitement himself. A thrilling swell of pleasure and elation is rising up from his stomach and curling between his lungs at the thought of drawing first blood. It’s like every vein in his body is lighting up - he hasn’t felt this alive, this full of _colour_ and _life_ in… in a _while_. Not even sex gets him high like this anymore.

 _Why don’t we do this every week_? he thinks dizzily. He realizes that he’s laughing out loud, sort of hysterically. 

“Wanna let me in on the joke, Kaz?”

“Oh, nothing, Boss. Just thinking about how much I want to punch your teeth in with this robot arm you bought me.”

Snake starts laughing too. He spits, then tips his head back, pinning Kaz with a wild grin that shows every single one of his teeth. “Why don’t you try?”

Kaz does just that. The blow grazes Snake’s jaw, but it lands hard enough to leave a bruise. Snake gets an in, returns the favour with a punch so hard it cuts the inside of Kaz’s mouth against his teeth. When they come together in a grapple, Kaz gathers up all the blood in his mouth and spits it in Snake’s eye.

It’s been almost half Kaz’s lifetime since the last time he and Snake were able to fight on something approaching equal terms. All his long buried memories of how to twist and spin and kick - how to shift the weight in a CQC hold so that your opponent threw _themselves_ to the ground - it all comes back until he’s flowing against Snake’s moves, like they’re young men on a Colombian beach again. CQC as an art is about making two human beings a single entity - you let your enemy’s energy flow through you like a current, and you _break_ that current to slam them down. It’s a little like dancing when done right.

 _Yeah, one last dance_ , Kaz thinks as Snake finally gets him in a chokehold. _Pop the champagne bottles and tell the band to play one more slow song_. He kicks back and hooks his right foot around Snake’s ankle. They plummet - Kaz, first - into the muddy riverbank. The fall breaks Kaz’s nose and cracks both lenses of his aviators, but he manages to elbow some space between his back and Snake’s chest. They roll over each other in the shallow water, the rocks and reeds, until Kaz manages to kick free: boot in Snake's face. He flips over and stumbles backwards out of the water, frantically trying to get purchase, to stagger to his feet. Snake rubs the back of his head and his hand comes away all bloody. He stares at the mess on his fingers for a hot, stunned half-second, and then he _springs_. 

He pounces Kaz like a wolf going in for the kill. The tenor of the fight changes in that moment, like seeing his _own_ blood was the thing to send Big Boss into a predator’s killing haze. They wrestle viciously, all pretense of affection and artistry slipping away as their human masks begin to crumble. Snake tries to shove his fist down Kaz’s mouth because he can’t get his hands around his neck. Kaz, flailing and half-blind, tears off Snake’s eye patch and begins to scratch at the scar-tissue around his eye, the kind that never quite stops feeling tender. He gets a thumb into the eye and Snake tears away howling.

Kaz bowls Snake over and gets him face down in the river. Without even _thinking_ about it, he dunks Big Boss’ face under the water and _holds_ him there with his bionic arm. Snake begins thrashing around beneath him, but Kaz pins him down, straddles him and shoves his head deeper beneath the water line with both hands.

 _What happens when he’s dead_? Kaz asks himself. This isn’t the first time in his life he’s asked himself this question. It’s not the tenth. Or the hundredth - 

_\- sitting in a humid hospital room staring the all the tubes and needles weighing Snake’s unconscious body down… what happens if he dies? Where do I go? What do I_ do _? Who am ---_

 _\- drunk beneath the stars outside a shitty hostel on the edges of Khartoum, wondering if Zero was really taking care of Snake, or if he was just as full of shit as he’d always been… what_ happens _if he’s dead?_

 _\- chained to a pipe, bag over his head, still dizzy from blood loss, wondering if Ocelot got the Boss away from XOF safely… he’d_ better _have because otherwise, what was the point of all this? Why did I do_ any _of this if he’s dead?_

 _Ocean wind in his hair, eyes closed against the harsh glare of the mid-noon sun. The Phantom’s talking in his ear, asking him about mission parametres and coordinates, but all Kaz can think about is how good it’s gonna feel when Snake turns around to see his own goddamn puppet pointing a gun at him. That’s the only thing that gets him up in the morning these days._ But what then? _he asks himself. What happens when he’s dead?_

_Well in that case I suppose I could finally rest. I’d be free to just_

_\- lay down and die myself._

Kaz hesitates, eases up the pressure on Snake’s head for _just_ a moment. It’s enough for Snake to wrench his body out from under Kaz’s and burst out of the water, gasping for air. Kaz tries to knock him down again, but his center of balance is all fucked up. His hand dips into riverbank's spongy mud, gets sucked in up to the wrist. He slips and Big Boss pins him down with a knee on his prosthetic and an arm on his neck.

Big Boss pushes hard against his jugular, using both arms. His face has cracked open into a monstrous snarl, one side of his mouth pulled open to reveal all of his bloody teeth, his eye is pulled so wide that the veins at the rims are visible. Saliva, blood and muddy water drip from his face, hitting Kaz’s lips and nose like the stray beginnings of a rain storm. Kaz’s tongue flicks out on instinct to lick it up, but he can’t pull it back in to _really_ taste it. There’s not enough space with Big Boss crushing all the air and flesh out of his trachea.

Kaz scrambles his prosthetic arm against the ground, trying to gain traction, but his strength is rapidly draining as the different parts of his brain begin to shut down. It only takes five seconds to knock someone unconscious if you’ve got the right angle. Snake doesn’t, so he’s going _nice and slow_. Ten seconds. Fifteen seconds. Kaz’s vision begins to darken at the edges and he feels euphoric. Big Boss looks a lot like some famous painting he saw once, can’t remember the name, can’t remember when he saw it… the one where Saturn is eating his own kid. Wide eyed, bloody-mouthed - as if the violence is being committed in some sort of primal innocence outside and above morality. 

Deprive the brain of air for five minutes and you can declare a person legally dead. _Do it like this, Boss._ Kaz thinks. _Don’t snap my neck to spare yourself the trouble._

_Put your hands around my throat and wait me out. Hold me until I stop breathing._

_Make sure your palms remember the shape of my neck_

_every_

__

_time_

_you do this_

_to some…_

_one… else…_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He wakes up.

It takes him a moment to figure out what’s going on. He tries to speak, but his voice is hoarse and broken. What he does say comes out in Japanese, he can’t quite remember how to speak english even though he hasn't thought in his native tongue in over fifteen years. He can’t tell where he is - his vision is all spinning shapes, slow motion explosions. For a second he thinks he sees his mother’s face -

He rolls over and gets to his hands and knees in inches. The world spins beneath him but his vision is clearer: moss, roots, his own hands. He slowly raises his head and sees Big Boss sitting on a rock, elbows on his knees, newly lit cigar hanging from his split lips. He’s so dark against the sunset that he’s almost a shadow himself - the only light on him is along the arch of his cheekbones and at the tip of his cigar.

Kaz stares at him for a very long time before he croaks out: _“Ika… ga... shite…_ ”

Snake seems to understand despite the language barrier. “I changed my mind,” he replies simply.

“ _Why_ ,” Kaz rasps, this time in english.

Big Boss sucks back a long, languid smoke. The jungle gets real quiet just before nightfall, like all of the day animals have all gone into hiding before the big bad night predators show up. The sound of Snake’s lips smacking as he releases the cigar is audible in the heavy, tranquil air.

“I thought about what would happen when I woke up tomorrow and you weren’t there -”

Kaz’s eyes go real wide. He pulls his fingers into loose fists, scooping up two handfuls of dirt and grass.

“- and I had to find new people to do your job,” Big Boss finishes, his tone somewhat distant. He hasn’t turned to look at Kaz yet - he’s staring straight ahead, back in the direction of Zanzibar Land. 

Kaz releases his held breath. The air scrapes against the walls of his damaged windpipe like steel bristles. He stumbles to his feet, but immediately doubles over again, his knees buckling out from underneath him as his stomach heaves. He throws up all over his prosthetic hand. A bit of it gets in his hair. It’s mostly bile, soured from the four cups of coffee he had earlier in the day. 

It’s gonna be a while until he can stand up straight he realizes, so he crawls over to where Big Boss is seated and, without really thinking about it, leans his forehead against his knee. Snake sighs - heavy, tired, _regretful_? - and sets one of his big, calloused hands on the crown of Kaz’s head.

“You want to tell me what you were thinking?”

“The… account…” Kaz says, voice thin. “Only… opens in case of… my death.”

“Hmm,” Big Boss taps a bit of ash off his cigar and runs his fingers through Kaz’s loose hair. He rakes them all the way to the end and curls a lock of it around his forefinger absentmindedly. 

“And I was… thinking… that… he was real eager… to part with government… money.”

“The rest of it, Kaz.”

Kaz turns his head so that his temple is resting against Snake’s thigh. He shuts his eyes, enjoying the feeling of Snake petting his hair in long, tender strokes. It’s a little like the way you would pet a dog, he thinks, but he’s too dazed to be ashamed of that - it feels so good with how bruised and beaten his body is. An effective interrogation technique.

“Zero was… fucking nuts… but I… think… you’re fucking nuts too… Boss.”

“Then why are you here?”

“C-C’mon. You… know why…”

Snake lets his hand fall to rest in the crook of Kaz’s neck. He cups it there gently, but with enough pressure to remind Kaz where the balance of his life and death hangs. Kaz gulps another burning mouthful of air and leans into the touch.

“So what happens, when this place goes down in flames then, Kaz?”

“W-what?”

“ "Zero" is going to come gunning for us soon. I’m standing my ground this time. What happens then?”

“Hah… you always call… me presumptuous… but you’ve got a… big head… and even bigger balls… to assume that I… want to… go down in flames with you… again... after all that...”

“Do you want me to ask?”

Kaz opens his eyes and looks up. Big Boss runs his thumb along the shell of his ear.

“Kaz: do you want me to ask you to stay? Is that what it will take to stop you from behaving this way?”

“I-”

Big Boss stubs out his cigar so that he can take Kaz’s face in both hands. 

“Stay with me and fight until the end.”

Kaz has to glance away, to hide what he’s certain is a hungry light in his eyes. He’s so desperate and starved… these are the words he’s been waiting to hear for fourteen years. “Do you really… have to say it… like that...?”

“Like what?”

“Heh… all sentimental. Sounds like… you’re asking me to… marry you.”

Big Boss’ grin is big and bright even from the vantage point of Kaz’s peripheral vision. “Nothing so mundane as that. Kazuhira Miller - I’m asking you to die with me.”

Kaz slowly turns his head up. Big Boss slides his hands down the length of his jaw as he gets to his feet. Then he offers Kaz his hand. There he is: framed by the fading red light, his face bruised and bloody, age hardly wearing him down. He seems younger beneath the patchwork light, like the humid air has unfolded the age in his face, put the colour back in him. It’s a mirror, a facsimile, an echo of when they first met. _So, will you join me? ... or do you wanna die right here, in my arms?_

It’s trite to compare the man to art, but he’s like a painting when he speaks like this: made of shadow and light, just the pieces of what makes a human being. Inside him is a void. Kaz’s heart is a void too.

_I’ll follow you anywhere. I’ll stay by your side always._

Kaz lets go of the breath he was holding. Lets it roll out of him like mist rolling down a mountain. Lets go of a few other things as well. He takes Snake’s hand. 

“Yeah, Boss…. of course I’ll stay.”


	10. 1999

[CLICK]

(a door creaks open, footsteps. rustling of paper. there are two people breathing in the room, but it takes a while for one of them to finally speak.)

“You look... _well_ , Miller.”

(the other man in the room bursts out laughing)

“Thought you’d gotten rid of me, hadn’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I am so _sick_ of you playing ‘innocent’ and ‘dumb’. You know exactly what you tried to do. To me. To _me and the Boss_.”

“What exactly did I ‘try’ to do?”

“I’m not gonna give you the satisfaction of saying it out loud. But you know now - it didn’t work. Bad luck for you, I guess.”

“I already told you that I thought your anger was... preemptive. Unsubstantiated. You’re an asset to the Operation and I hope that this means you will finally be able to function at top capacity without all the... _distractions_ that have hampered you in the past.”

“Hmph. You never miss a beat, do you?”

“The Boss - the one _here_ \- brought in ten new men while you were away on your little ‘vacation’. I’d like you to look over their dossiers and give me some suggestions as to which ones you think would make suitable recruits.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just leave it on my desk and get the hell out of my office. I don’t want to look at your face any longer than necessary.”

(the second man follows his instructions. however, he pauses at the door before opening it.)

“You think an awful lot of yourself, to think that I would try to destroy you.”

“Is that so?”

“All I’ve ever needed to do is wait around.”

“For what?”

“Hmm.”

“For _what_?”

“Have a good evening, Miller. And don’t let the men see you until you’ve had some rest and healed up a bit. You look like shit.”

[CLICK]

 

 

 

 

 

 

_"It's gonna be a lonely battle... no good or evil, no winners or losers._  
_The question we have to ask ourselves now is,_  
_can we survive long enough to see the 21st century?"_

 

 

**(ZL Surveillance, 9:27-24-12-99)**

“Hey, I know the weather’s shit, but you’d better not let the Commander catch you smoking back here off schedule. Look behind you.”

“Heh - didn’t even notice the sign.”

“Watch out. I hear the last guy who back-talked him about the break policy got cracked in the face with that robot arm of his.”

“Yeah, but that was ages ago. Haven’t you noticed that he’s chilled out lately?”

“Now that you mention it... yeah. Even he and the Boss have been getting along better. You notice? They're almost always together now.”

“No more conflicting orders, thank God. It was always hell to try and figure out which one of them I was supposed to be listening to on any given day.”

“I wonder if it’s because...”

“What?”

“Oh, I just saw something weird a while ago.”

“Between the Boss and the Commander?”

“Mmm.”

“Weird like... _you know_...?”

“No, not like that... at least I _hope_ not. I was on perimetre duty, Eastern Gate, and a little bit after sunset the Boss and the Commander came limping out of the woods arm in arm. They both looked like they’d had the _shit_ beat out of them.”

“The Boss too?”

“Yeah - his face was real messed up and he had blood down the front of his shirt. The Commander was even worse off, though. But the weird thing about it is that they were both laughing.”

“Laughing?”

“I could hear it all the way from the top of the wall. I just pretended to not see them. I didn’t know what I’d say, seeing Big Boss and the Hell Master like that.”

“I guess they must really enjoy it.”

“What? Fighting? You’d have to, to be at it as long as they have. You know the stories about Big Boss - he must have had every chance to retire, but here he is, still fighting the good fight. And I’ve heard that the Master’s been at his side for over twenty-five years.”

“Man... do you think _we’ll_ still be alive in twenty-five years?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“Just something I’ve been thinking lately... about how we’re here because there’s nothing waiting for us back home.”

“This is our home.”

“Is it? Or is it our grave? I... I’ll either die tomorrow or live through enough battles that I’ll begin to like it, like the Boss and the Commander. Like... well, you know who. I don’t know if I want that.”

“Hmph - cussing me out about my smoking. The worst I’ll get is a literal slap on the wrist. But talk like that? It’ll get you killed.”

“Sorry, you’re right. Hey - if you don’t mind, light me up one too.”

 

 

 

**EVENTS LEADING UP TO THE ZANZIBAR LAND DISTURBANCE**

**1997 - Doctor Drago Petrovitch Madnar disappears on a trip to visit his daughter in Russia. No one looks for him.**

**1998 - A dangerous, rebel group in central ex-Soviet Asia wins the “Mercenary War” and establishes itself as an autonomous military nation: Zanzibar Land.**

**1998 - Czech scientists Kio Marv announces a breakthrough in bio-bacterial research that may mean a permanent, synthetic solution to the energy crisis. He calls his invention: OILIX… synthetic, renewable oil.**

**October, 1999 - Investigative Journalist Holly White goes to Zanzibar Land undercover and disappears.**

**November, 1999 - Zanzibar Land announces that it is nuclear capable and begins making demands.**

**December, 1999 - Zanzibar Land kidnaps Doctor Kio Marv in order to secure his research.**

**December 24th, 1999 - Solid Snake is sent into Zanzibar Land to retrieve Marv under the command of his old Special Unit, FOXHOUND.**

**One hour into his infiltration, Solid Snake meets and kills former Outer Heaven rebel Kyle Schneider, who claims that Big Boss is alive and well, leading Zanzibar Land from the shadows.**

 

 

 

**0900**

Solid Snake falls back against the cool wall of the ammunition storage unit and slumps down until he’s covered entirely by the high, leafy ferns. With his camo, he’s completely hidden like this, and in the perfect position to oversee the bay doors of the the tank hangar.

He flips on his radio.

“Solid Snake to Command.”

“Campbell here. Report your status.”

“I’ve got an ID on Doctor Marv’s guard. In position to track him once he finishes his routine shift.”

“Anything else to report?”

Snake pauses, an awful feeling settling behind his teeth. He should tell Campbell about Schneider, about what Schneider implied…

“Snake? Is that all?”

“Yes sir,” Snake says, on autopilot. “Solid Snake out.”

“Roger. Campbell out.”

Snake flips his radio off and runs a hand over his face to wipe away the sweat. It comes away streaked in blood. He blinks.

_"You're no different, they'll forget about you too. Not like... him..."_

Snake taps his cigarettes out of his front pocket and strikes one up.

_"He came and saved us... he forgave us for what we'd done. He gave us a new life, a new home. A new... family..."_

The rush of nicotine hits him immediately. The helicopter pilot hadn’t let him smoke on the way over so this is his first hit since the mission briefing with Campbell. It’s like coming alive again every time.

_"Snake, you'll understand soon... he is a great man..."_

Snake remembers the feeling of picking a piece of crushed cartilage out from between his knuckles too vividly to believe that Big Boss is really alive here in Zanzibar Land. What he _does_ believe is that his former C.O.’s legacy towers so large and dark over the warring world that some madman could easily slap an eyepatch over half his face and claim name to it. On the battlefield _truth_ and _reality_ don’t ultimately matter: all that matters is what soldiers believe, what they tell themselves in order to be able to live with the stress of combat.

If these people _believed_ that they were being lead by Big Boss, that was enough to make them dangerous.

“Excuse me, sir, but you aren’t allowed to smoke here.”

Snake’s hand goes to his weapon without even thinking about it. He whips the gun out first, looks up second, only to find himself leveling the muzzle of his .45 between the eyes of a very young girl. She doesn’t flinch. Instead, in a thick South African accent, she says:

“- there’s a no smoking sign.”

Snake slowly looks behind him to see that, yes, there was absolutely the faded impression of a universal _‘no smoking’_ symbol spray-painted onto the cement. He lowers his gun, but does not put it away. The girl is barefoot - which is how she snuck up on him - and has a combat knife stuffed into the belt-loop of her dirty-khaki shorts. She tosses her long, coiled hair back and sighs.

“- but it doesn’t look like you’re from here,” she says, “so it’s probably okay. The Commander mostly puts up those signs so that people don’t take too many breaks off their work.”

Snake furrows his brow and glances towards the bay doors. No movement. Back to the girl -

“Who is ‘The Commander’? Is he the one in charge of this place?”

The girl tilts her head, like he’s asked a very stupid question. “Of course not. Zanzibar Land’s boss is the One Eyed Man. The Commander just makes _rules_ ,” and the her tone of voice makes it clear exactly what she thinks about _those_. “The One Eyed Man says that Zanzibar is a free place, so the people who live here can do what they want.”

“Who is the One Eyed Man?” Snake asks.

The girl squats down in the ferns with Snake and unsheathes her knife to cut a plant out of the dense moss. She shears thick, bamboo-like skin off its stalk then cracks it open, pouring the sap into the palm of her hand. The way that she wields her weapon draws Snake’s attention: there’s a very particular twist to her methodology. The way the hilt sits against the base of her hand is familiar - it’s the way in which someone would hold a knife if they were trained to use it as part of the rudimentary basics of CQC.

The girl offers Snake the other half of the plant, her small mouth quirking into a knowing smile. 

“You know who he is,” she says.

*

_“Again!”_

_David pulls to his feet only to get flipped on his back a fourth time, a heel hooked around his ankle._

_“Be on guard even when you’re on the ground,” Big Boss says. He’s a hulking shadow against the fluorescent lights of FOXHOUND HQ’s sparring gym. It’s hard to get used to the way he really does live up to his reputation: he towers over everyone he interacts with, deftly wielding a gravitas and charisma that is obviously inborn, not learned. Facing him down even in a controlled environment is a little terrifying, a little thrilling, feels a little like when David set foot down in Iraq and smelt the burnt, hazy air of a warzone for the first time. David wants to impress him, yeah, who doesn’t? More than that, he wants to beat him._

_Big Boss offers David his hand and David takes it - automatically, gratefully. For his trouble, he gets the heel of a hand smashed into his nose. He staggers back, hands cupped around his face, looking, he imagines, as betrayed as he feels._

_“I know what you’re thinking, Solid Snake, but on the battlefield there’s no such thing as fair-play or honour. Even a legend like me fights dirty, remember that.” Big Boss yanks David forward by the collar of his sweat-stained t-shirt and moves to grab his face, to slam him into the ground. David uses his leaner stature to his advantage and slips out of the way. The wasted momentum of the Boss’ misaimed blow to puts some distance between them._

_“This isn’t the battlefield, sir,” David says, voice airy and nasal through the cracked cartilage in his nose. He gets behind Big Boss and gets him in a chokehold. There’s something flawed in his stance, however, and Big Boss is able to get an arm around his waist and use their entwined position to throw David over his shoulders, slamming him down on the mat so hard that David’s eyes spark then blink dark for a moment. He lays back-flat on the floor, feeling the impact echo through his ribcage in waves. This time, when Big Boss offers him a hand up, he refuses. Rolls over and forces himself to his feet._

_When he’s standing, he lifts his chin so that he can meet Big Boss’ gaze, eye-to-eye. Big Boss crosses his arms._

_“Better, but you’re in the wrong frame of mind.”_

_“Sir?”_

_“You’ll soon learn that for men like us, the battlefield is wherever we are. If you fail to internalize that, to live that, you’ll wash out of the program before your first mission.”_

_“With all due respect, sir, I -” David stops himself, realizing that he was back-talking on auto-pilot. FOXHOUND’s atmosphere is so casual at times that he forgets his military training, forgets that it’s a soldier’s job to eat shit and not complain._

_Big Boss’ mouth flattens. “But?”_

_“I don’t think that’s true,” David finishes simply._

_Big Boss doesn’t ask him to elaborate. Instead, he grins - subtle, but sincere. “Miller was right about you.”_

_David turns his jaw, inquisitive._

_“He described you as… ‘opinionated’.”_

_“You want me to shut my mouth, sir?”_

_“Many of history’s great injustices could only be carried out because soldiers didn’t have opinions. That’s not what FOXHOUND is about.”_

_“What is FOXHOUND about?”_

_Big Boss claps David on the shoulder. “In six months, you come to me and answer that question yourself.”_

_After that, he’s gone. Still dizzy and aching from the spar, David staggers towards the wall and slides into a crouch. He allows himself a moment of vulnerability now that he’s alone. It’s permissible, as long as no one else sees it._

_David stares at his hands and runs through CQC forms in his head, analyzing what exactly went wrong in the duel. He gets lost in thought, but not lost enough that his senses fail him entirely. He looks up in response to the sound of footsteps punctuated by the steady clang of a cane - Master Miller. He opens his eyes to see Miller gazing down at him with an unreadable expression through the dark panels of his antique sunglasses. Slowly, he tugs a lens-cleaning cloth from his pocket and throws it in David’s lap._

_“There’s blood on your face, David.”_

_David accepts the cloth gladly and without pride. He wipes his whole face down, not certain what’s blood, and what’s sweat._

_“First one on one session with the Bossman, huh?”_

_David nods. “He doesn’t go easy on rookies.”_

_“It’s not in his nature to go easy on anyone,” Miller replies. “That’s why he’s the Boss.”_

_David finishes rubbing the wetness from the hollow of his eyes. He looks at the cloth and realizes that he’s made a horrible mess of it. “Sorry,” he says, holding it out between them. Miller waves him off._

_“Keep it.”_

_David twists the cloth in his hands, something churning uncomfortably in his stomach, an emotion he can’t identify._

_“You come here to drag me off for more training?”_

_“No, uh,” Miller grins and slips a book out from the inner pocket of his coat, leaning on his crutch. “I saw that you finished ‘The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With the Sea’ and dropped it off at my office. I thought that you might want to have a drink and discuss it?”_

_David raises an eyebrow. “A drink?”_

_“A coffee,” Miller clarifies. “You left a few interesting notes in the margins of my copy of ‘Darkness at Noon’. I thought I’d pick your brain directly about this one.”_

_David’s not certain how to react. He’s used to percolating his ideas on his own, in the long silences he spends smoking before sleep. He’s not used to people taking an interest in his thoughts, especially not authority figures. He’s still at that weird age where he’s thinking of Master Miller as an adult, and himself as a -_

_“Kid?_

_“Sir?”_

_Miller peers at him over the top of his shades and wiggles the book invitingly. “You coming, or not?”_

**1000**

Snake presses his ear to the wall of the jail cell. The noise had initially sounded like the tightening of pipes, or the fall of dead seeds against wood, until he listened closer, noticed the pattern. The same eight taps over and over again, in the same order with the same emphasis. A tap code, of course. Snake thinks back to his training and deciphers it in three stages. 1… 40… 51. He tunes his radio to the frequency.

“Come in, come in,” he speaks carefully, keeping his tone neutral and devoid of any characteristic identifying features. His voice echoes back at him through a haze of tinny feedback. Whoever is on the other side is nearby.

The first thing that comes through the radio is the sound of broken laughter, then a string of celebratory mumbling in Russian. Finally, the man in the other jail cell answers.

“So, you figured it out? My code?”

“Who am I speaking to?” Snake asks wearily. The man on the other end laughs again.

“I cannot believe it. How truly lucky I am! You are the man sent to rescue me then?”

“Are you Doctor Kio Marv?” Funny, he thought that Marv was Czech, not Russian.

There is a long silence after that, and the man’s breathing shallows out. “Oh. O-of course. You are here for him.”

“Who am I speaking with?”

“I am Doctor… Drago Pettrovich Madnar, and I have been held prisoner in Zanzibar for over two years.”

A memory lights up in Snake’s head. Impossible - Doctor Madnar had been safely emigrated to America after the Outer Heaven incident. “Doctor Madnar,” he says, letting the natural, familiar grizzle in his voice leak back in. “This is Solid Snake speaking.”

“Solid… Snake? As in… Solid Snake from Outer Heaven?”

“The one and only, Doctor. Sorry, that these aren’t the best circumstances for a reunion.”

Madnar laughs again. This time, it’s deflated, disappointed noise. “No, no they are most certainly not.”

“What are you doing here?” Snake wonders. “Command told me that you’d settled nicely into a new life in the midwest.”

“I…” Madnar swallows whatever he was going to saying in a choked sound. “There is… only one thing I am good for after all…” he says, more to himself than to Snake.

“Doctor?”

“Are you… absolutely certain… that you are not here to help me as well?”

“I’m sorry, Doctor Madnar. My mission prerogative is only to rescue Doctor Kio Marv and confirm whether or not the terrorists actually have nukes.”

“I suppose you cannot deviate from this path at all.”

“No. I can make sure you’re hidden somewhere safe, but I can’t get you out of here just yet.”

“I have information!” Madnar says desperately.

“I can debrief you now. I need to know what you know.”

“I… I won’t talk unless I know that I’ll be safe!”

“That sounds an awful lot like blackmail, Doctor Madnar, but you’re hardly in the position to negotiate.”

Madnar sputters. “D-didn’t you come here to save people?”

Snake looks down at his muddy boots, at the very faint bloodstain on his gloves.

_The world you live in is an illusion. The vows you’ve sworn to your country, the conflict we’re forced into… only Outer Heaven is real._

“I came here to fulfill my mission objectives as they were give to me, Doctor. I’m sorry, but I’m a mercenary, not a hero.”

Madnar falls silent again. The feedback on the radio frequency whines and whistles as he sighs. “If that’s all it is to you,” he says, his voice quiet and terribly vicious, “then why even come here at all?”

*

_Miller stirs two creamers into his coffee, but doesn’t touch the sugar. David’s always taken his coffee black - the kind of life he’s lived hasn’t given him a lot of opportunity to develop preference. This kind of simplicity has other benefits too - he has a chance to observe his teacher without being noticed._

_Master Miller handles his tea-spoon with a fluid ease, implying that he was left-handed even before his war wounds. That kind of detail says a lot - says that whoever cut off Miller’s arm didn’t notice something that should have stood out. More likely, Miller obfuscated it, even under pressure._

_“So,” Miller smiles at him, tapping the spoon on the edge of the mug. “What was the book about?”_

_David arches an eyebrow, “haven’t you read it before?”_

_“It was a very long time ago, I admit. So explain it to me, like you would to someone who’s never even heard of it. In less than three sentences.”_

_Snake sighs and takes a sip of his coffee. He eyes the folded edges of the book’s cover suspiciously - where to even begin with this one?_

_“Er,” he casts around for a hook. “... a young boy becomes obsessed with his mother’s lover, a commercial sailor who gave up his profession to marry her. This obsession culminates in… the young boy enlisting his delinquent friends to help murder and eviscerate the sailor, who he feels has betrayed his definition of glory by abandoning the sea.”_

_“Hmm,” Miller sets down the spoon, takes a whiff of his coffee before sipping it. “Interesting.”_

_“Interesting? I just... described what happened in the book.”_

_Miller taps the novel, right in the center of the title. “What’s the book called, David?”_

_David’s brow furrows, is this a trick question? “... The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With the Sea.”_

_“Yet you described the plot as being about Noburu, not Ryuji.”_

_“The story’s told mostly from Noburu’s point of view, sir.”_

_“But the novel is titled for the sailor, Ryuji. Who does a story belong to - the narrator, or the person who it’s named for?”_

_Master Miller’s voice has dipped into a sort of condescending sing-song; he gets like this when he’s leading up to some grand point, lording it over his students. Miller is effortlessly charismatic and, often, intimidating, but in one-on-one interactions like this, David had to admit that his act could sometimes get a little irritating. David kind of likes it - there’s a sort of comforting familiarity in starting to know someone well enough that they can get on your nerves._

_“That seems like,” David says carefully, “an unnecessary distinction.”_

_“Not really,” Miller hums as he drinks his coffee. “Any American kid in an eighth grade english class can tell you what the themes of a novel are. I’m more interested in the perspective people unconsciously take when they put themselves in the story.”_

_A dribble of coffee gets caught in the dip of Miller’s lip when he puts down his mug. He scoops it along the edge of his thumb - where the vein runs close to the skin - and laps it up slowly, running his tongue from the heel of his palm all the way to the ridge of his finger-nail._ Uh huh.

_“Here’s where you reprimand me,” David grumbles, quickly averting his eyes. “Call me a kid - tell me that I’m still folding under authority figures even though we’re not in the traditional military here in FOXHOUND, right?”_

_“Huh? Oh, of course not David -” Miller sets his hand on the book and slides it across the table, nudges it up under David’s fingers so that both their hands are resting on the water-damaged gloss._

_Master Miller occasionally has an oddly lascivious manner of conducting himself; there’s something solicitous, almost_ flirtatious _in the way he gives compliments or asks questions. It’s especially striking because so many wounded vets David has known folded in on themselves after losing a limb, swathed themselves in layers of pain, kept distance between themselves and others, both emotionally and physically. Miller’s confidence is obviously one of his finest honed tools - almost like he’s the perfect opposite of Big Boss’ powerful naturalism: all careful facade, well rehearsed lines, dance steps that he could perform in the dark. Even knowing that, being in his aura is just as overwhelming as being around Big Boss sometimes._

_So, David is certain that the way their fingers are touching on top of the book is definitely not intentional._

_But then again, maybe it is._

_“I want you to tell me what you saw in this book. Show me what you underlined, what stood out to you.”_

_Cool as ever, Miller retracts his hand and curls it around the handle of his mug. He does not, however, break eye contact. David’s chest feels tight - impressing the notoriously hard-to-please Hell Master is more important to him than he’d admit out loud, for a number of reasons._

_David flips the book open, allowing it to fall flat on the page he’d dog-earned. There - framed in pencil - is the only phrase he’d underlined in the entire book._

_“This part,” he says. “About Ryuji’s relationship with the sea. About why he can’t go back even though it’s clear to the narrator that he doesn’t belong on land.”_

_He turns the book so they both can read off the page. Miller adjusts his sunglasses so that his eyes peek out over the rims._

_“Hmm,_ interesting,” _he says, and then he recites: “_ ‘He grew indifferent to the lure of exotic lands. He found himself in the strange predicament all sailors share: essentially he belonged neither to the land nor to the sea’.”

 _David reads the rest:_ “ ‘Possible a man who hates the land should dwell on shore forever’."

**1130**

> CAMPBELL: Metal Gear?
> 
> SNAKE: That’s what he said. According to him, the Zanzibar Land terrorists kidnapped him while he was on route to meet his granddaughter in St. Petersburg. He’s been here as a prisoner ever since, working on perfecting the unfinished model from Outer Heaven.
> 
> CAMPBELL: ...
> 
> SNAKE: Colonel?
> 
> CAMPBELL: I’m just thinking, Snake. FOXHOUND isn’t what it used to be. This information is well above my authorization. I might have to call the CIA in on this and...
> 
> SNAKE: That would interfere with the mission.
> 
> CAMPBELL: No doubt the first thing they’d do is pull you out. But if what Doctor Madnar says is true, the new model Metal Gear is already launch capable. Wait, let me get Kasler in on this.
> 
> CAMPBELL: ----
> 
> KASLER: Kasler here.
> 
> CAMPBELL: George, are you following this?
> 
> KASLER: I’m sorry, I never heard anything about any ‘Metal Gear’, not until I joined FOXHOUND.
> 
> CAMPBELL: I thought you fought in the Mercenary War?
> 
> KASLER: I fought in a unit far removed from Central Command, near the Kazakh and Chinese border. I was under the command of an ex-Spetsnaz man they called ‘Red Blaster’. Never even met the man in charge.
> 
> SNAKE: Why did you leave?
> 
> KASLER: They stopped paying us.
> 
> SNAKE: That was enough for you?
> 
> KASLER: Yeah. I’m a mercenary, not a zealot.
> 
> SNAKE: That’s why you think of those who stayed? True believers, huh?
> 
> KASLER: Absolutely. I heard that Zanzibar Land’s finances were being handled by the Commander of a famous PMC from back in the 80’s - Diamond Dogs.
> 
> SNAKE:... Diamond Dogs...
> 
> CAMPBELL: You’ve heard of them, Snake?
> 
> SNAKE: Once or twice, yeah.
> 
> KASLER: With that kind of pedigree there’s no way Zanzibar was suffering that much financially. I suspect that the reason they stopped paying us was to shed off anyone who didn’t believe in “the cause”. I definitely wasn’t the only guy who left. But many more stayed.
> 
> SNAKE: What do you know about Zanzibar Land’s... Boss?
> 
> KASLER: Only that everyone who ever met him would die for him.
> 
> CAMPBELL: That sounds like a sad, familiar story.
> 
> SNAKE: ... yeah.
> 
> CAMPBELL: Thank you, George.
> 
> KASLER: Sorry I couldn’t tell you more.
> 
> CAMPBELL: Snake... what do you want to do?
> 
> SNAKE: ...
> 
> SNAKE: I can’t leave.
> 
> CAMPBELL: Snake?
> 
> SNAKE: I -
> 
> SNAKE:
> 
> CAMPBELL: Come in, Solid Snake. We’re losing your signal.
> 
> SNAKE: Campbell, don’t pull me out. I’ve come this far, I _can’t_ leave.

**1230**

Holly White is pretty, too pretty to be tromping around in the dark, poorly ventilated tunnels beneath Zanzibar Land’s Command Center. She’s got sludge stained pants up to her knees but only a speck of dirt staining her delicate face. When Snake sneaks up on her, she’s loading another cassette into her concealed recording device. He intentionally steps in a puddle, alerting her to his presence. She spins around and draws her gun in a single, fluid motion, but her form is clumsy and she hasn’t even clicked the safety off.

Snake puts both arms in the air, letting his pistol dangle harmlessly from his thumb. “Easy there, Miss White. I’m not your enemy.”

Her arms visibly relax, but she doesn’t lower the muzzle of her gun. “... who are you, then?”

“The idiot they sent in here to clean up this mess. I’m Solid Snake.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “FOXHOUND?”

“Former. But like you, I’m getting paid to be here, so we’ve got at least one thing in common. Put down the gun.”

Hesitantly, she obeys him. Her hands are trembling when they leave the holster. “You gave me a heart attack, Mister _Snake_ ,” she says with poorly forced levity, smoothing down her frayed hair. “I thought they’d found me.”

“If they’d found you, you’d have been dead before you could turn around. The men here don’t fool around.”

“Yes,” Holly huffs. “I’m quite appraised of the methodology employed by the soldiers of Zanzibar Land. Despite what it might look like, I’m a _very_ good reporter. I’ve seen… a lot.”

“You must have, for them to be after a civilian the way they are. Your camera and recording equipment okay?”

Holly frowns and pats down the packs hanging from her belt. “The tapes are fine, but I dropped my camera in the water when I was on the run. It says it’s waterproof, but I’ve never actually tested it.”

“You picked a good hideout,” Snake says, casting a look around the narrow, cement hallway. The sewer system was labyrinthine, half-built and, moreover, incredibly dangerous to enter. Snake himself had almost been tugged under by the water pressure. “Hmm, I couldn’t help but wonder what a nice girl like you was doing in a place like this.”

Holly giggles into her hand, “you can’t really expect a line that old to work.”

Snake shrugs, the corner of his lip tugging into a feckless smile. “No, of course not.”

“Not even two minutes in and you’re already trying to smooth talk me. Here I was expecting Rambo, but I get a bargain bin James Bond wannabe.”

“You’ve got beauty and brains - that’s the whole package. Can’t fault a man for trying.”

Her confidence restored, Holly stalks over to him with an obviously self-conscious sway to her hips. She’s wearing dirty khakis, a men’s tank-top and a too-large safari jacket tied around her waist, but her feminine figure is hardly camouflaged by the bulk. Snake can’t help but track the way her curves move beneath the heavy fabric; he’s always found himself more drawn to the performance than the attributes. There’s a current running beneath the interplay of all human interactions that is an unconscious response to primal desires and fears. One thing that Big Boss’ training does is make you hyper aware of the push and pull of that current, it makes you able to smell it wafting off people’s skin like the scent of sweat and salt.

It was very easy, Snake found, to make someone attracted to you. It’s the rest of it that he’s always found unfathomable.

Holly slips a keycard out of her shirt and slides it into the front pocket of his camo, right behind his smokes. “Here - mid-level clearance. You’ll make better use of this than me.”

Snake fishes the keycard out and examines it. Level 4. “How did you get your hands on this?”

“I’m not _completely_ helpless,” she huffs. “I’ve got my methods.”

“And what methods would those be?” 

Holly actually looks a bit caught. She kicks at the slimy cement beneath her feet, “I… hmm.”

“Miss White? If you’ve got more information about what’s going on here, you need to share it with me.”

“It’s not just _information_ ,” she says, tone defensive. “I’ve got a big scoop here. It could be the story of my _career_ \- I don’t want to spill it all to a government man. You know what happens when reporters leak their stories to the government before publishing them, don’t you?”

“They get suppressed,” Snake answers honestly.

Holly shoots him a bitter grin. “Mmm hmm. Journalists don’t usually consort with your type for a good reason.”

“I guess our relationship was doomed from the start.”

“Ha ha. You’re very funny, but I don’t exactly trust you, Mister Solid Snake.”

Snake takes a step forward and lords his superior height over her, sets her with an intense stare. Uses her _first_ name. “Holly. This isn’t your ordinary terrorist threat. We’re beyond the petty posturing of the Cold War - this could affect _global_ security. Do you really want that hanging over your shoulders?”

To her credit, she doesn’t back off, but her shoulders droop a bit and she runs her teeth over her bottom lip. 

“My radio isn’t on. Whatever you saw, for now it’s just between you and me.”

She looks away, a blush blossoming high across her cheekbones. “The... first time I got caught…”

“The _first_ time?”

“Yeah,” Holly laughs. “The _first_ time… well, they didn’t put me in a cell or anything. They actually welcomed me with open arms. ‘Zanzibar Land is an autonomous nation,’ is what I was told. ‘Journalists are just as welcome here as they are in America’.”

“Not an unusual tactic for an extremist government to take.”

“No. And just like with the Communists in the past, it was obvious that unless I was was very, _very_ careful what I pointed my camera at, I wouldn’t be getting out of here with either my equipment or my life.”

“So what did you end up pointing your camera at?”

Holly snorts and, finally, takes a few steps back. She begins to pace. “You’ve seen the kids around?”

“Mmm.”

“Did you know that they’re working in _sweatshops_?” Holly pats down her drying camera. “I have proof. Even some major American corporations have outsourced to _Zanzibar Land_ \- ridiculous! Is this what the triumph of capitalism means? Any old thing goes, without oversight or impunity!?”

“It’s going to be a new millennium in a few days, Miss White. Welcome to the brave new world.”

“Yeah, well. It’s going to be a _brave new scandal_ if I get outta here with my skin intact.”

Snake watches her pace. She skids to a stop and runs a hand through her hair in frustration, leaning against the damp, filthy wall. She doesn’t continue. Snake keeps interrogating.

“Did you speak with their Boss?”

She shakes her head. “No, but I spoke with the _Commander_.”

“What was he like?”

“He was… nice. But like… _used car salesman_ nice. I think he was partially blind too, which was strange.”

“Strange?”

“Yeah, to see that sort of weakness in such a high ranking position here of all places.”

“Hn, well, if you get old with an injury like that it looks more like a decoration of honour than a weakness,” Snake mutters, tapping a cigarette out of its package. “I had a teacher back in FOXHOUND with one arm and a peg leg who could still kick my ass.”

“Yeah. Now that I think about it, the Commander wasn’t the only one I saw like that. I noticed this man following me sometimes, I suppose he was the one the “Boss” assigned to watch me… well, I never really got a good look at him, but once I saw him in the light I couldn’t forget the face. He was so pale and… his nose was missing.”

Snake’s thumb falters on the lighter’s flint. He tries to keep his expression neutral, but Holly is - by profession - an observant woman. She perks right up.

“Sound like someone you know?” she asks, not even trying to mask the eager curiosity in her tone.

“Nn. You meet a lotta men who look like that in my line of work.”

“Uh huh. Are you sure about that? It’s a very specific description. And, well, you know the rumour about this place, don’t you?”

“Rumour?” Snake asks right back, taking a drag on his newly lit smoke.

“You know the one,” she says coyly. “Are you really gonna make me say it. If there weren’t some credence to the rumour, they wouldn’t have called in someone like _you_.”

“Like me?”

“Don’t play dumb - old school FOXHOUND. Pre- Outer Heaven Incident FOXHOUND.”

Her skeptical eyebrow is arched right to her hairline, but Snake just stares her down, false ignorance furrowing his brow. _Come on, Miss White. Tell me exactly what you know_.

Not surprisingly, he manages to wait her out. She sighs heavy, shakes her head in disbelief, wispy ponytail bobbing from side to side.

“The _rumour_ that it’s Big Boss running this place.”

“Big Boss died in Outer Heaven,” Snake says without skipping a beat. “You think it’s true that he’s alive here?”

“I… I don’t know,” Holly rubs her arm, “but I’m not the expert here, am I? Between the two of us, you’re the one who knows Big Boss best. He was _your_ Boss once. You’re the one who took him out the first time, aren’t you?”

Snake grimaces and flicks the ash from the end of his dwindling cigarette into the sewer water. _Smoke break’s nearly over, Snake, wrap this up_. 

“... yeah.”

“So _you_ tell me… is this place his MO?”

Snake blunts out the end of his smoke with his fingers and slips the rest of it into his pocket for later. “You were honest with me, Holly, so I’ll be honest with you.”

Holly’s eyes go wide and hopeful. Snake grunts and avoids meeting her gaze directly.

“- I have no goddamn idea.”

*

_“What’s FOXHOUND about?”_

_Gray Fox is halfway up a redwood when Snake asks the question. In his mottled green camo and against an overcast sky, he’d be invisible except for the ends of his red bandanna trailing behind him in the gentle breeze._

_He stops scanning the horizon and glances down at Snake, who is disarming a trip wire._

_“Hmm?”_

_“It’s something Big Boss said to me. Still not sure what it means, though.”_

_“He asked you that question?”_

_Snake shakes his head, “I asked him. But he just threw it back in my face. Told me that in six months, I’d have my own answer. Five months later I still don’t have one.”_

_“Heh,” Fox twists his knife to slice a line of sap off the body of the tree. His knife glides close to the bark, but doesn’t damage it. “Think I might have an answer just because they call me Fox?”_

_“Dunno, but you’ve been through the gauntlet.” Snake snaps the wire free, brushes pine needles from the dirt to reveal deep impressions. “Found the tracks.”_

_Fox jumps down from the tree and examines the footprints. After a moment he shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “These are fake - made with a pair of shoes on the end of poles.”_

_“How can you tell?”_

_“Easy,” Fox’s pale fingertips dance around the circumference of the prints without touching them. Even his knuckles are visibly scarred. “A human tends to walk heel to front, unless they’re moving carefully. Either way, the footprint will show the shape of their movement. Fake tracks like these are too even - they press them deep so that they stick out the way natural tracks wouldn’t. Even the ones that vary - the deepest part is in the center, no one walks like that.”_

_Now that it’s been pointed out to him, Snake feels foolish for not noticing. Fox bounces to his feet and gestures for Snake to follow him._

_“Snake,” Fox says conversationally as they move through the forest. “Some men need some great, philosophical reason to do the things we do, but I’m not like that. Sorry to disappoint you.”_

_“You don’t think about it? Never told yourself anything placating, just so you can sleep at night?”_

_Fox shakes his head, eyes keen on the soft, forest floor. “Laws, morality, all the structure we live by… that’s all just something we humans made up. Where I came from, it didn’t even exist. I don’t really believe in anything, so I don’t need to tell myself anything. That’s it.”_

_Snake snorts. “Is that a warning, or advice?”_

_“It is what it is, rookie,” Fox stops and holds up a hand to scan the tree canopy. “The second time I met Big Boss - the time I decided to follow him - you want to know what he said to me?”_

_“What?”_

_“For no greater cause… no philosophy, no ideology. We don’t need a reason to fight. We fight because we are needed, and we fight for ourselves.”_

_Recalling the memory lends a softness to Fox’s face that looks foreign. He doesn’t quite smile, but his eyes brighten, his voice slips into a tone that’s almost reverent. Snake watches him, watches the tight coil of his right arm over his knife, watches the defensive slant in his shoulders that never quite relaxes - whatever it was he just said, it seems that he believes in at least one thing._

_“And… to you, that’s what FOXHOUND is?”_

_Fox sighs and unsheathes his knife. He shuts one eye, carefully aims the blade and sends it whirring through the air, severing a trip wire from its mooring several feet above them. A lump of inactive C4 falls to the ground. Fox winds up the wire and tosses the molded plastic to Snake._

_“Hey, Snake,” he says, “you’re really shit at tracking, so why don’t you stop with the bargain bin philosophy and pay attention, huh?”_

**1400**

Ideally, a FOXHOUND agent should have a relatively low kill count on any given mission. The aim was to enter and exit an operation invisibly, to leave no footprint. The obvious consequence of this was that any person who did see you needed to die: immediately, efficiently, _indiscriminately_. No FOXHOUND agent had ever faced an inquiry for killing civilians.

Snake has been in Zanzibar Land for six hours and has only killed five people. Kyle Schneider was unavoidable. The three men flying the HIND… that had been necessary. The young man slowly turning pale beside him in the elevator... that was entirely Snake’s fault. _Hiding space unsecured… counting the seconds until the lift arrived, hands unsteady on the hilt of your gun_ … using the lift in the first place had been an amateur mistake. Not checking to make sure it hadn’t already been called before getting on? That was inexcusable.

_Where is your head, Solid Snake?_

\- it’s back in the sewers beneath the Command Center, listening to Holly’s description of her stalker, thinking about the things Kyle Schneider had said while bleeding out. His mind is back in the mine-field in the badlands between Command and the Tower Building, trying to listen through a haze of static and voice synthesizer to divine the potential cadence of a familiar voice -

_I’m your #1 fan..._

The elevator clunks to a stop and Snake gets his arms under the corpse’s armpits and drags him out onto the roof. The neck was cleanly snapped, no bruises, but the soldier’s bowels released so the body smells horrendous even if it looks fine. The first thing Snake does is look for a hiding place: air-filter, generator, ammo storage… Snake ends up dumping the man in the stairwell. He tips the body over the railing and lets it hit the landing below with a sickening squelch. It would take a professional medical examiner to figure out that the bruises were made post-mortem and hopefully with the place on lock-down, Snake would be long gone by the time that happened.

He steps back out into the clear afternoon, taking a moment to wipe his brow and appreciate the crisp breeze whistling above the trees. Zanzibar Tower was high above the blanket of mist that had begun to settle over the jungle come the afternoon - high up enough that you could see the spread of the entire base. Snake sets his elbows on the lip of the parapet and stares up at the cloudless sky. According to Holly White, Kio Marv had attached a message relaying his location to the leg of a carrier pigeon.

“Who the hell still uses carrier pigeons in 1999?” he mutters to himself.

After a few minutes, he flicks his radio on. Campbell gave him a... _number_ when the mission began, but cautioned Snake not to call it unless absolutely necessary. _He’s not on the payroll for this mission, so technically he can’t know about it._

Snake tunes in the familiar frequency.

> SNAKE: This is Solid Snake, do you read?
> 
> [the frequency is silent static for 30... 45 seconds...]
> 
> SNAKE: Solid Snake here, Master Miller, do you read?
> 
> [the static whines]
> 
> SNAKE: 
> 
> MILLER: - wait, wait - I’m here! This is Miller, I read you loud and clear, Solid Snake.
> 
> SNAKE: Hnh - took you long enough. Hope I didn’t catch you in the middle of something.
> 
> MILLER: Campbell hooked me up to the satellite system, but I’m still using outdated technology. FOXHOUND doesn’t exactly give you their top tier tech in the severance package.
> 
> SNAKE: Of course not.
> 
> MILLER: So what can I help you with? You must be having one hell of an eventful “camping” “trip” if you had to call a retired old kook like me for advice.
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: I’m winking.
> 
> SNAKE: I know.
> 
> MILLER: Well... good to see that you’ve lightened up a bit since we last talked.
> 
> SNAKE: I’m trying to catch a carrier pigeon.
> 
> MILLER: What?
> 
> SNAKE: In order to contact the hosta - the host of my camping lot, I need to catch a carrier pigeon. There’s a message attached to its foot, but I can’t see any sign of it.
> 
> MILLER: You called me at _home_ to ask me how to catch a pigeon?
> 
> SNAKE ... 
> 
> MILLER: Didn’t Campbell hook you up with a wilderness advisor?
> 
> SNAKE: Sure. He told me that pigeons are sensitive to noise so I came all the way up this 30 floor tower to find it. What next?
> 
> MILLER: I... y-you... you’re serious, aren’t you? What did we even teach you back in FOXHOUND basic?
> 
> SNAKE: Master Miller - how do I catch a carrier pigeon?
> 
> MILLER: [sigh] Okay. Fine. 
> 
> MILLER: [muttering] _I can’t believe..._
> 
> MILLER: What kind of rations do you have access to?
> 
> SNAKE: Standard military. B1, B2 and B3 types.
> 
> MILLER: Well, unless things have changed since I quit the military, B2 rations should have some sort of minimalistic carbohydrate or protein based entree in them. Beans and rice, that kind of thing. Your “campsite” doesn’t exactly sound like a wood pigeon’s natural habitat, so lay out some grains and wait it out.
> 
> SNAKE: Okay.
> 
> MILLER: ... 
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: ... that’s it?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: Snake?
> 
> SNAKE: ... is this a secure line, Master?
> 
> MILLER: You mean is Campbell listening in? No. Roy trusts me. Besides, I’ve not been “officially” briefed about your mission so I’m not on watch for it.
> 
> SNAKE: Are you alone right now?
> 
> MILLER: I’m a retired bachelor, what do you think?
> 
> SNAKE: You’re absolutely sure that we won’t be overheard?
> 
> MILLER: [pause] Yeah. The walls are pretty thick, here.
> 
> SNAKE: I need to ask you something.
> 
> MILLER: Oh?
> 
> SNAKE: Yeah, about Diamond Dogs.
> 
> MILLER: Diamond Dogs? I thought you weren’t gonna call them.
> 
> SNAKE: I’m not, but I need to know a few things about them. Did that organization have any connection to Big Boss?
> 
> MILLER: Huh? Well - every PMC formed in the early 80s had some connection to Big Boss. After his original militia attempts fell through in the 1970s, his men dispersed and started up their own organizations on battlefields all over the world. That’s why every militia from _Widow Maker_ to _TME_ to _LDT XO_ claims to have been founded by Big Boss.
> 
> SNAKE: Big Boss recruited you in the ‘70s - were you involved in any of his militias?
> 
> MILLER: I... I was a FOXHOUND man, David. Why do you ask?
> 
> SNAKE: The name Diamond Dogs came up today. You said that Gray Fox signed up with them after he quit FOXHOUND.
> 
> MILLER: That’s what I heard.
> 
> SNAKE: I think that... he may be here.
> 
> MILLER: ... really. At your “campsite”?
> 
> SNAKE: Do you think there’s a chance... 
> 
> MILLER: A chance...?
> 
> SNAKE: A chance that Big Boss might still be alive.
> 
> MILLER: I don’t know, David. You’re the one who killed him, why don’t you tell me?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: Do you trust your own eyes and ears? Your own instincts?
> 
> SNAKE: He was definitely dead.
> 
> MILLER: There is only one Big Boss. There has only ever been one Big Boss.
> 
> SNAKE: Yeah... you’re right, he’s not exactly the kind of guy who’d be easy to impersonate.
> 
> MILLER: So what do you think is going on?
> 
> SNAKE: I wondered if maybe... Gray Fox was carrying on his legacy. Big Boss kept him as a prisoner once, but Fox... agreed with him about a lot of things.
> 
> MILLER: [a snort] He was loyal, yeah. To a fault.
> 
> SNAKE: But this just doesn’t seem like something he would do. 
> 
> SNAKE: He wouldn’t impersonate someone... lie to people like this. He’s not a leader, or a deceiver. But he would never follow a false idol either. 
> 
> SNAKE: I... I don’t know, who else could it be?
> 
> MILLER: You want my opinion on this, David?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: I think that you’re jumping at shadows. What evidence do you have that Frank Jaeger is there with you?
> 
> SNAKE: One of my contacts saw a man with pale hair and a missing nose following her.
> 
> MILLER: In a place like this, David, that could be anyone. That’s really it?
> 
> SNAKE: And... 
> 
> MILLER: And...?
> 
> SNAKE: When I entered the minefield outside the Command Center someone called me using a voice synthesizer to warn me about it. They seemed to know who I was. I can’t help but think that it might be him. And if Gray Fox is here, that would lend cred to the rumour that Big Boss is running this place.
> 
> MILLER: What you _suspect_ doesn’t matter - what matters is what you see with your own eyes, what you feel with your own hands. You saw Big Boss dead with your own eyes. You killed him with your own hands. Trust your senses. Until you’re staring him in the eye, none of this matters. You’ve got a mission to focus on.
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: _Snake_.
> 
> SNAKE: You’re right, Master.
> 
> MILLER: Take a smoke break. Get your shit together. The moment you let yourself start to dwell like this, your head will be out of the mission. Once that happens, you’ll get sloppy. And a sloppy soldier is a dead soldier. 
> 
> SNAKE: Affirmative. Thank you. 
> 
> MILLER: Any time. Miller out.
> 
> SNAKE: Solid Snake out.  
> 

**1630**

Solid Snake has been in Zanzibar Land for eight hours and has killed six people. The seventh man he sees die is at the hands of Gustava Heffner. She and Snake round a corner to see a man pissing against the wall. He spins to face them with his dick still hanging out and Gustava pulls the trigger the moment she sees the white of his eyes. Her pistol isn’t silenced so the shot rings out between the tight halls of the armory, loud enough to deafen them both for several minutes. Snake blinks back against the flash and hugs the wall, edging around the corners in either direction to make sure the noise didn’t draw unwanted attention, but the armory looks to be otherwise deserted. His hearing comes back gently, and all at once - like turning up the volume on an analog television. Gustava is staring at the dark hole in the dead soldier’s cheek, her entire body rigid-still.

Snake closes in and grabs her by the shoulders, shakes her - not roughly - so that she looks at him.

“Never fire that indoors _again_ , do you understand?”

Gustava nods, her eyes wide and hollow.

Snake glances back at the dead man, lying in a pool of his own blood and urine. “Is this your first kill?” he asks.

“N… no,” Gustava says. She takes a deep breath, smoothes out her voice, puts a measure of control into her words. “No… I have killed. Once before.”

“Well, no one can know we’re here, so don’t get any ambitions about padding out your kill count. C’mon, I’ll get the arms, you take his feet.”

They hide the body in a drainage ditch. Gustava tears a rag off her uniform jacket to wipe up the blood and stuffs it in after him. She’s got long, elegant fingers and no compunctions, apparently, about getting piss all over them.

“No more mistakes,” she says firmly, looking Snake in the eye. “I’ll take point.”

Snake lets her go on ahead. He takes the chance to study the way she moves: one foot in front of the other, solid, certain steps but, but there’s something decidedly _unsoldier-like_ about the way she moves. It’s graceful - she glides through the grime and gloom like a dancer, because that’s what she is: Gustava Heffner - gold medalist Olympic ice skater, assigned as Doctor Kio Marv’s bodyguard before he disappeared, and sent deep into enemy territory by the STB to get him back at all costs, whether she was suited to the job or not. And she’s not - Gustava is no lone warrior. There’s a set to her jaw, a darkness in her eyes - these things make her intimidating despite her flawless, Hungarian beauty. She looks like an aristocrat, and she moves like you might imagine a Grecian statue to move were it given life. But she’s not experienced. She’s not a hardened killer. The next time she fires her gun, she’s still going to be thinking about the hole in that dead soldier’s cheek. She’ll be thinking about it for the rest of her life.

“We must free Doctor Madnar,” she says after a few minutes.

“All things considered I think he’s probably safer locked in his jail-cell.”

“No, we need him. He is the only one who has spoken to Doctor Marv.”

“I thought you were the one who knew where Marv was?” Snake tries not to sound too irritated; otherwise what was all that business with the carrier pigeon and Gustava’s coded radio frequency!?

She keeps moving, “no. But I have a key. It is a universal key that opens all cells except for those that need card-key clearance from the Boss, or the Commander. I managed to get assigned as a guard for the jail perimetre.” Gustava pats down her belt, where a tarnished keychain hangs beside her gun holster. “Madnar made me promise that I would release him, otherwise he will not tell us where Kio Marv is.”

Snake snorts. “Hmph, he tried to play the same game with me.”

Gustava casts a glance back. “Game?”

“Yeah - he demanded I free him in exchange for information.”

“And you… left him in his cell?”

“Yeah,” Snake steels his jaw against the rebuke in her tone. “I’m not getting paid to be a good samaritan here.”

“Hmm,” is what Gustava says in response.

Snake isn’t bothered by it. It doesn’t really matter what she thinks of him.

*

_“Another?”_

_Roy Campbell is trying to be subtle, but the disapproval doesn’t just tug down his voice, it tugs down his entire face, making him look jowley-er than usual. His most recent girlfriend - Joanna, press editor, ten years younger than the good Colonel - purses her lips politely and tries not to look at the empty beer glass towering over David’s half-eaten meal. It’s his third, and he’s just ordered a fourth._

_“I’m fine,” David insists gruffly, his gaze scanning the restaurant nervously for probably the tenth time. Roy’s kind enough to have not subjected him to anything fancy - it’s a mid-tier sushi joint. Low prices, cheap looking neon-signs in the windows, but the food’s damn good. At happy hour, it’s a little more crowded than David can stand. “I like Sapporo,” he explains when he turns his attention back to the table. “Don’t get much of a chance to drink good Japanese beer in the service.”_

_“I’m sure,” Joanna demures, “that big military men like you and Roy can hold your liquor.” She gives Campbell a knowing look, then says: “_ Right _?”_

 __Well, at least someone’s on my side, _David thinks._

 _Campbell doesn’t look like he wants to let the issue go, but his lady’s hand falls on the curve of his elbow and he lets out a long, defeated sigh just in time for David’s fourth beer to arrive. David takes a gulp gratefully. Yeah - he’s starting to feel a little light-headed, but it’s fine. It’s just to take the edge off. He hasn’t forgotten what Miller told him:_ do what you need to do, just don’t let it _show._

_“So,” Joanna says, delicately picking up a Philadelphia roll with her unevenly cracked chopsticks, “early retirement - what’s in store for you?”_

_David apparently doesn’t answer quickly enough, because Roy answers for him. “He’s good with dogs - used to work with strays before signing up.”_

_“Oh!” Joanna pops the roll in her mouth and nods, her curly red hair bouncing as she tries her very best to salvage what is very obviously a mission of pity. “Do you have a dog?” She asks when she’s finished chewing._

_“He does,” Campbell says._

_“Actually,” David turns his glass of beer around in his fingers sloshing the foam from one side to the other. “I had to put him down last month.”_

_“Oh,” Joanna says._

_“It’s fine. He was old and sick. I was… taking care of him for a friend.”_

_“Ah,” Roy tips his own glass of beer in acknowledgement; his first glass of beer. “It was McDonnell’s dog.”_

_“Was McDonnell -” Joanna mimes a cane, subtly, under the table. “The charming man with the… glasses.”_

_“At the Christmas party, yeah.”_

_“Hah - I thought he was trying to steal me away from you! He’d had a bit too much to drink-”_

_“Probably, but he’s always like that. I heard that he was quite rakish in his youth. Which reminds me, did I introduce you to -”_

_David tunes out the conversation. His eyes are fixed on a flickering sign in the window: the words ‘Authentic Rolls!’ in bright red with an unreadable and inaccurate scrawl of green hiragana beneath. The ‘R’ is switching on and off at a frequency that is giving David a headache. He feels sweat beading at his hairline, tension crawling beneath his skin. There’s something about the quality of light in here that gets to him, that reminds him of -_

_“Excuse me, I have to -” he pushes his chair back to hard it almost falls over. Roy and Joanna stare at him. So do a few of the other diners. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what they think of him. “I’m going to the washroom. I’ll be right back.”_

_He takes his beer with him. The weight of Campbell’s concerned gaze follows him all the way around the corner. He chugs the beer the moment he’s alone and sets the glass on the radiator so that he can run both hands down his damp face. Get a grip, Snake. David looks around: the narrow hallway is unadorned, just bare cement - men’s washroom, women’s washroom and at the very end of the hall, a door marked “STAFF ONLY”. David can see the comforting haze of street lamp and fog out the small, rectangular window; a service entrance._

_David leaves. He doesn’t go home. Instead, he goes to the bus station. He was planning on moving up to his new place in Banff next week, but he’s got everything he needs in his wallet: identification, money, he’s even got his handgun on him, concealed beneath his left pant leg. There’s nothing at his apartment that he needs to take with him. There’s nothing left for him here._

__

*

Doctor Madnar looks well.

Surprisingly well. _Suspiciously_ well. 

Last time - in Outer Heaven - when Snake had pulled Madnar out of a hole in the floor, he’d been disheveled: dirty face, beard overgrown, skin hanging loose on his arms from rapid weight loss. _This_ time Madnar has colour in his cheeks and flesh on his bones. He stumbles out into the fading light, making a great show of shielding his eyes from the sun.

“Gustava, my dear,” he rasps, “you are truly a sight for sore eyes.”

Gustava keeps her chin up, but she spares the old man a flicker of warmth - a very brief smile that goes all the way to her eyes.

“Where is Doctor Marv?” Snake asks, taking this brief moment of respite to check the slide-stop of his pistol. He can see Madnar bristling from the corner of his vision.

“After all that, this is the only thing you have to say to me?”

“We’re running out of time,” Snake replies curtly. “I’ve been watching the perimeter - guard duty is lighter than it was when I arrived, meaning that they’re prepping for something. If what you say about Metal Gear is true, we have even less time than we thought.”

Madnar stokes the long ends of his beard, a hostile expression rippling through his face for just a moment. Snake notices that his wrist is dark with fading bruises - four small indents in the shape of fingers beneath the imprint of a palm.

“The POW camp is built over the secret hangar where they keep Metal Gear, so we may kill two birds with a single stone.” Madnar is speaking hesitantly. He raises his hand and points in the direction of the Zanzibar Tower. “ _That_ camp is built on the other side of the ravine. To control who may and may not enter, there is only a single bridge between the Command Center and the prison.”

“I saw the bridge,” Snake says, his memory lighting up. “The area around it looks like it was strip mined.”

“Yes,” Madnar says. “This is the purpose of the POW camp. For all of those who do not convert to the Boss’ ideology, at least they can be put to a cost-effective purpose before they die. They call it ‘The Bridge of Sorrow’.”

“Horrible,” Gustava spits. “The soldiers here say that it is a paradise on earth for their kind. That it is a True Home for them, but this is how they treat those who will not bend to the Boss’ will?”

“War is expensive, Gustava,” Snake says. “Armies have always tried to cut costs with slave labour, as long as there’s been war.”

“The Commander here describes it as a flawless War Economy,” Madnar mutters. “A machine where every part moves in perfect concert. The only thing left that they need is the perfect grease -”

“OILIX,” Snake finishes for him. “Battle provides the bodies to work, that free work builds the war machine as efficiently as any assembly line. The only flaw is that in our modern world, war needs fuel to run, and fuel is expensive.”

“Without Doctor Marv’s invention perpetual warfare would see us eventually fighting wars with sticks and stones, just as Einstein predicted.” Madnar curls his lip. “With OILIX, big men can throw tanks and bombs at each other until the earth is nothing but a smoking cinder.”

Snake shoots Madnar a skeptical look. “Harsh words coming from a war engineer.”

“I did not become an engineer to build death machines,” Madnar snaps back. “But in the Soviet Union, you studied war science, or you did not study at all.”

Gustava has strayed from the conversation, a few steps towards the treeline. She’s staring at her gun, running her slender fingers down the length of the muzzle. “I don’t understand,” she says softly. “I was forced into the STB for my country… for my family. But these people? What are they fighting for in that case?”

Snake throws his head back in the direction of the Tower Building. The setting sun is a hazy, red disc behind the early-evening mist. It frames the monolithic head of the Zanzibar Tower perfectly at this angle: a martyr’s halo, casting a black shadow over the land. 

“No greater cause,” Snake says, quoting from a place and time that almost feels like another life to him. “No country, no ideology, no higher purpose... they fight for themselves.”

Like the hole in the cheek of the soldier Gustava killed, the memory of Big Boss with his skull caved in, like Ryuji’s relationship with the sea: if you can’t run from it and you can’t be without it, the only thing you can do is live with it, or lay down and die. For some people, those two choices might as well be the same thing.

*

> ???: Solid Snake, be careful! You’re about to enter a minefield!
> 
> SNAKE: What?
> 
> SNAKE: Who is this!?
> 
> ???: ... let’s just say that I’m... your #1 fan. I know this place well and the clearing you’re about to cross into is littered with claymores. One more step and you’ll be blown to hell.
> 
> SNAKE: Hnh. And why should I trust you, if you won’t identify yourself?
> 
> ???: Take another look at the clearing. You’re a trained warrior, you know the signs. Why else would this area have been cleared? The trees here are of no use in construction.
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> ???: The grass is newly laid, obviously put down to hide the triggers.
> 
> SNAKE: Fine, if you’re really on my side, then what route should I take to reach that Tower?
> 
> ??? The best route... the only route you can take to save your own soul, Solid Snake, is to turn around and leave this place.
> 
> SNAKE: What?
> 
> ???: If you want to survive, you’ll leave immediately and forget everything you saw here.
> 
> SNAKE: Heh - nice try. If I leave, the Zanzibar Land terrorists get to keep their ace in the hole and milk the world governments out of anything they want. I can’t let that happen.
> 
> ???: Can’t you?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> ???: Do you really think that you’re the only thing standing between world peace and global chaos? I didn’t think you were vain.
> 
> SNAKE: I’m not vain.
> 
> ???: Then you know that if you left - if you disappeared off the grid and stopped calling in... the US government would just resort to a more traditional strike against this place. Your actions here don’t mean anything until you succeed. Right now you’re not even a gun in their hands - you’re just a bullet in the chamber.
> 
> SNAKE: Who the hell are you?
> 
> ???: Like I said - your biggest fan.
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> ???: Good luck, Snake.
> 
> ???: Don’t get blown up.

*

“A perfect war economy,” Snake says, after he’s had some time to think about it, “doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Big Boss would waste his time with.”

They’re working their way through the narrow corridors of the drainage system beneath the Tower Building - one at a time: Gustava taking point, Snake watching the back and Madnar sandwiched between them. 

Madnar’s initial response to hearing the name ‘Big Boss’ is silence. When he does address Snake, he speaks mildly: “So... you know.”

“I didn’t _know_ until you confirmed it just now,” Snake replies. “But my superiors must have suspected, otherwise I don’t think they would have gone through so much effort to pull me out of retirement.”

“The reputation Big Boss has… I suppose the CIA believed the only man who could kill Big Boss a second time is the man who did it the first time.”

“You two speak this man’s name as if he is a God,” Gustava says, “but I have seen him here. He is just a soldier.”

“He’s more than that. Big Boss is a mantle. He stands for an ideology. He’s a legend.” Snake absently runs a thumb over the knuckles of his right hand. “A legend I killed with my own hands. Doctor Madnar - are you sure that it’s actually Big Boss?”

Madnar wrenches a hand around his bruised wrist. “It is… he is definitely Big Boss. No other man demands such respect. Although I admit - most of the time I was dealing with his Second in Command. He is the one who put it in such… economical terms. Big Boss… he shrouds everything in philosophy, but the Commander has no such illusions - here, this is it -”

The Doctor pushes past Gustava to set his hands on a steel door in the wall - water-tight and sealed shut with a wheel lock. Madnar has to put his entire body into twisting the lock, but the mechanism barely moves.

“- through this door-” he grunts, “- and up will bring us to the cargo loading area. We must move quickly - the weather has become balmy and we do not want to be down here when the flash-rain sets in or we will drown.”

“Doctor,” Gustava says, a little chidingly. “Do you perhaps need help with the door?”

“Of course not, my dear,” he grits out. “I am not… so old that I cannot…”

Madnar yanks hard on the door and the wheel comes off in his hands. “Дерьмо!” he curses, tumbling backwards and falling on his ass. Gustava sweeps forward and pulls him to his feet, but he slaps her hands away, rubbing his arm where she grabbed him with a wince. Interesting.

Gustava picks up the broken handle next. “Rusted,” she observes. “This door has not been used for some time.”

“This route was a bust,” Snake says. “We need to find another way.”

“There is _no_ other way,” Madnar insists. “This is the path we must take, otherwise we will be forced to go overground!”

“Then we go overground,” Gustava says. “Snake and I will protect you.”

“ _Невозможный_ ,” Madnar says, fisting his hand in the baggy sleeve of his coat. “We cannot deviate from the path!” He tugs at the fabric, revealing a sleeve of bruises running up towards his elbow. Like the one on his wrist, they’re all in the pattern of a hand. Gustava notices as well this time, taking a step forward to stop him from rolling the shirt back down.

“Doctor, what happened to your arm?”

Madnar’s eyes flash - fear? Panic? He looks, Snake thinks, like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

“I told you I was a prisoner. They were… delicate with me, so that I would do my work, but the Boss’ _administrator_ \- the Second in Command - he liked to remind me of what my place was, bah -” Madnar snatches his arm away and turns his back to Snake and Gustava. His breathing is audible as he tries to compose himself.

“Doctor Madnar?”

“I… need to... relieve myself,” Madnar says hesitantly. “If we are going to be here for some time, may I be excused?”

Snake chuckles and strikes his heel into a scummy puddle. The tunnel is filthy. “Just do it right here. This place already smells like a toilet, what does it matter?”

Madnar shoots him a scathing glare. “In front of the lady? Don’t be a brute.”

Snake opens his mouth to argue, but Gustava sets a gentle hand on his arm and gives him a look. “Give the Doctor a moment to himself,” she says.

Fine. Snake shrugs - besides, it wasn’t like there was anywhere for the Doctor to run to except back the way they came.

Madnar ambles off and Snake flicks his radio on. Gustava leans back against the wall and crosses her strong, pale arms, watching Snake wordlessly as he makes his call.

> SNAKE: Solid Snake here, do you read?
> 
> HOLLY: This is Holly White on the case, reading you loud and clear.
> 
> SNAKE: Hnh, you sound a lot more chipper than when we last spoke.
> 
> HOLLY: Well, the guards stopped doing sweeps of the area, so I think that I’m off the hook for now. And if you’re checking in, that means you’re making progress. The faster you dismantle this crazy dictatorship, the faster I can get out of here.
> 
> SNAKE: About that...
> 
> HOLLY: Don’t tell me you’re stuck again.
> 
> SNAKE: We’re in the drainage tunnels beneath the Tower Building and we hit a bit of a snag.
> 
> HOLLY: ‘We’?
> 
> SNAKE: I made contact with Doctor Madnar and Marv’s STB bodyguard, Gustava.
> 
> HOLLY: Another woman, huh? Did your smooth moves fall just as flat with her as they did with me?
> 
> SNAKE: Is that a hint of jealousy I detect, Miss White?
> 
> HOLLY: Entirely your imagination, and also your typical male ego. But, how can I help?
> 
> SNAKE: The door to the surface is broken. Rust. We’re stuck down here.
> 
> HOLLY: What do you expect me to do about that?
> 
> SNAKE: You told me to contact you if I needed to procure any unusual items. 
> 
> HOLLY: Oh, I did, didn’t I?
> 
> SNAKE: Do you know if these tunnels are equipped with any kind of emergency equipment? Blowtorch? Vices? Crowbars?
> 
> HOLLY: What do you think, I spent my entire time in Zanzibar Land trudging around in the sewers?
> 
> SNAKE: Well, you looked so at home... 
> 
> HOLLY: You’re terrible!
> 
> HOLLY: But... I think... the Tower Building was only finished recently. There’s still some scaffolding holding up the front and I remember seeing a lot of leftover construction equipment there.
> 
> SNAKE: All the way back at the entrance? That’s a lot of backtracking... 
> 
> HOLLY: What do you want me to do? Hand deliver you a blowtorch?
> 
> SNAKE: And ask you to get your pretty hands all dirty? No, it’s okay. Thank you for the information.
> 
> HOLLY: You’re welcome. Look after yourself, Solid Snake - I’d hate to have to be the one to write the article on your death.
> 
> SNAKE: I’m sure you’d do the story justice.
> 
> HOLLY: Heh - good luck. Holly out.

 

When Snake looks up, Gustava is staring at him with her dark, sad eyes. Her expression is neutral, but she looks like she’s _judging_ him. Snake stares right back.

“What are you looking at?”

She tips her head. “What are _you_ doing?”

“Making contact with Miss White. She knows the layout of the Command Center better than I do. Thought that maybe she might know something we didn’t.”

Gustava narrows her eyes. “That is not what I’m talking about.”

“Then enlighten me.”

Her eyes flash with irritation, but she keeps her composure. _Cool as ice_ , Snake thinks. _Better keep that one to myself_.

“With… Miss White? Saying such things to her.”

“What ‘things’?”

“Your… flirtations.”

“We were just having a bit of fun, Gustava. Adults in tense situations need to joke around to keep from getting pulled under by the pressure. _You_ need to unwind a bit too, otherwise you’re going to get yourself killed.”

Gustava sighs and slices her hand through the air. “You Western Men… always so quick with a pick-up line. Sex and love has no consequence for you, you never think before you say these things to women. It’s not the same thing for us.”

“I’ve known plenty of women who take flirtation just as lightly as men.”

Her expression does not lighten. “What,” she says, very slowly, “were you doing?”

“I’m -”

“When this is over, will you take her to dinner? See her again?”

“I don’t know. I might not live through this. She might not live through this. Too soon to say.”

“If you do live through this,” Gustava is relentless. “What happens then?”

_What happens … if you come to see me and I take you home with me? Tell me exactly what you think is going to happen._

Snake lets his shoulders hit the wall. He takes out a cigarette and lights it, “when I’m on a mission, I don’t think that far ahead into the future.”

“Do you ever think that far ahead into the future?”

Snake sucks back the first inhale of his cigarette, holds in it his mouth to feel the warmth of the smoke hit the back of the throat before he pulls it up into his nasal cavity. “What do you mean?”

“You are very fluent in english. You understood my question.”

She’s got her hands clasped in front of her, gently running two fingers over the second-last knuckle on her left hand, the sort of unconscious gesture that someone loses themselves in when recalling a difficult memory. Snake makes a guess:

“I think that right now Gustava, you’re not talking to me. You’re talking to someone else.”

Her lip quirks - there’s a lot there, in the very slight wrinkle of her cheek: bitterness, regret, a bit of self-criticism. _Bingo_. “Before I was in the STB, I almost married an American soldier.”

“Hnh - how’d you meet a guy like that? The life of an Olympic skater under the Soviet regime didn’t leave a lot of space for downtime and travel, I imagine.”

“You are right - we met at the Olympics in Canada, 1988. It was a very brief affair, but tinged with the sort of passion that lingers for years afterward. He promised to marry me - to bring me to the US and be a family with me.”

“I’m guessing your emigration papers didn’t go through.”

She laughs, “do they ever? For someone like me… considered a national asset, there was no way that I ever would have been allowed to cross the Iron Curtain. But on top of that, the US denied me entrance.” This scrap of honesty has drained the hostility from Gustava’s countenance. She unfolds - not just emotionally, but physically too, peeling off the wall to undo her hair-tie. She combs her fingers through her hair, twining it tight. “When it went public, my career was ruined, my family shamed. So, with nowhere to turn, I join the _Státní Bezpečnost_ \- the secret police.”

“Huh -” Snake puffs out a mouthful of smoke. It lingers between him and Gustava in the claustrophobic tunnel; dissipates in pieces, breaking apart like bread in water. “A pretty different profession from your last one.”

“Not so much,” Gustava says, pulling her hair back into the tie once again. No loose bangs this time. “Skating and police work - both of these made me a slave to my government. That is why my soldier and I understood each other, I think. But he never came to look for me, never came to find out what happened. I think that for him, I was just a momentary fantasy. A delusion, to imagine that he could be _normal_.”

Snake bites the inside of his mouth, thinks back to the rain hitting the window of his squalid, little apartment in Washington State: a broken mug on the floor, his hand on the wall, Master Miller staring at him with his clear, placid eyes… _what happens if I come to see you? If you come with me?_ Three years later he’s still not sure what he expected - like saying the right things, doing the right things, were going to unlock someone’s heart. Like a little bit of kindness meant that someone was going to take care of you.

“It’s true,” Snake says, closing his eyes. “A bit of affection, a scrap of love… that’s all you need to give to men like me to make them foolish enough to think that things could be different.”

“Then you admit that you’re merely playing with Miss White?”

“No - what they tell you when you join the military is that you’re protecting the important things for civilians: comfort, security, peace, love. Even though it’s all crap, I still believe that those are the things that really matter. But it’s easy to lose sight of that.”

“Ha! Don’t tell me you joined the military for such a naive reason?”

Snake shakes his head. “Of course not. I did it for the same reason you did, Gustava: I had nowhere else to go. Soldiers are called ‘dogs of war’ - people like us, we’re stray dogs. Lost without a purpose or a master. But it’s important that we never lose sight of what makes us human. Che Guevara said: _‘one should harden without ever losing tenderness’_. If people can’t fall in love even under bad circumstances, there’s no point to any of this. If we let go of the things that matter, we really are just animals.”

Gustava looks him over thoroughly, her eyes raking over the set of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, the place where his arm is folded to hold his cigarette aloft. It’s an uncomfortable examination to weather, mostly because Snake knows that this is the way he looks at people sometimes: the insignificant pieces thumbed through and analyzed until they form a greater whole. She’s figured out something about him.

“… have you been… ‘jerked around’ by a woman in your life, Solid Snake?”

Snake says nothing. He puts his cigarette to his lips, but does not breathe in. He can see Gustava arch an elegant eyebrow even from the corner of his eye.

“Have you been… jerked around by a _man_ in your life?”

He coughs. That… he had _not_ been expecting that, hopes that the subtle burn flaring across his cheeks isn’t visible. He can tell from the way Gustava laughs - weightlessly, _sincerely_ \- that it probably is.

“ _Interesting_ ,” she drawls, putting relish on the harsh, clipped ‘r’s of her accent.

“It wasn’t like that,” Snake mutters. “It wasn’t anything, really. Just a case of crossed wires and mixed signals.”

“But you still think about it, so it was _something_.”

“Yeah, well,” Snake turns his cigarette between his fingers, “no one likes being toyed with.”

“An older man, then?” The brightness in her eyes says that she’s not going to let this go. It was a mistake to let her reel out this inch of humanity in him - she’s lost and alone in the dark, she’ll hold onto this sliver of light like it’s a lifeline.

“Someone lost, just like me, but not so lost that he’s here getting his hands bloody again. Don’t ask me about it again.”

Gustava nods, takes the rebuke gracefully. “Perhaps I have misjudged you, Solid Snake,” she says, sounding a little awed, a little fond. _Sloppy_ , Snake thinks. _Time to get back to work_.

He’s burned his cigarette down to the filter without noticing. He drops it in the sludgy water beneath him, grounds it out with the toe of his boot then looks Gustava dead in the eyes. “No, you were right about me. If I really believed everything I just said, I wouldn’t be here.”

She’s quiet after that. They don’t have to bear the silence for long - Madnar comes padding down the hall soon, clutching his arm and looking strangely subdued.

“That was some piss break,” Snake remarks. 

“Never mind that,” Madnar waves it off. “Let’s go.”

*

_There were a few times - living out in the middle of nowhere - that David found himself walking along the edge of a cliff-face and contemplating the distance between his feet and the ground below. Not for any tangible reason - the sensation was more existential. Living on your own in a house with no modern amenities did wonders for depression. You spend all your time chopping wood, skinning animals, taking the long drive out to town to pick up something simple, like sea-salt. It keeps you occupied._

_The problem is you still have to sleep. One of the first things they teach you at FOXHOUND is that night is a stealth operative’s best friend: no reason to fear the things that slither out under cover of darkness when you are one of those things. David starts staying up until dawn; being so tired he can’t think straight makes REM sleep so deep that often, he can’t remember the dreams._

_He never thinks about the people he’s killed when he’s got his arms elbow deep in an animal’s guts. He thinks about it when he’s sitting on the edge of the cliff, smoking._

__A good man, _he thinks,_ would probably consider throwing himself over the edge at least once, right?

_The thing is, he has all these skills. These things he can do that no one else can. He’s kept the business card Miller gave him in the front pocket of his wallet for two years now - maybe it was time to go back._

_For some reason, he thinks of a line from that first Mishima novel the Master leant him:_ ‘Alienation and the long voyages at sea will compel him once again to dream of it, torment him with the absurdity of longing for something his loathes.’

_Is it true? One more dive into the dark places, into the bloody places, would that be enough to pull him back in? Every bullet fired from a gun is a mile further out to sea._

_Yeah. A man who hates the land_ should _dwell on shore forever._

**1744**

As often happens on the battlefield, when things go wrong, they go wrong all at once. In retrospect, you remember these kinds of things in flashes. It’s the visceral details that stay with you - not the things that you see, but the things that you feel.

The blast from Metal Gear’s vulcan cannon is _hot_. It sears past Snake’s face with whiplash force, knocking him back as the bridge blows. He gets his hand up to block the debris, but a wedge of metal scrapes the underside of his arm, tearing it open. The sound hits second - a roar of gunfire, a cacophony of screeching metal, the river below being torn open by the onslaught. When Snake has the chance to gather his senses, it’s already over; the bridge is destroyed, Madnar has split and there are two lights shining out from the darkness beyond the bridge - one blinding spotlight and a darker circle beneath that, a dull eye the same colour as a lunar eclipse, the same colour as the sun setting over Zanzibar Tower. In the deafened silence after the explosion, a familiar voice calls out across the canyon.

“Snake,” rasps Gray Fox. “I told you to turn back!”

“Fox!?”

Snake yells back even though there’s probably over half a mile between them. Metal Gear shifts, pulls back, its great mechanisms creaking beneath their own weight. A sour, metallic wind blows over the cliffside as the tank releases its exhaust, rears its haunches to retreat.

“For old times sake, I’m going to do your a favour and let you live! But the deal is you gotta get your sorry carcass out of here! You _hear_ me!? _Go home_ , Snake!”

_It’s the visceral details that stay with you - not the things you see, the things you feel -_

When the dust settles, Snake crawls over to Gustava. What he sees is her, huddled over, clutching her torso. What he _feels_ when he turns her over is something hot and slippery. Even through his gloves, he can feel her bleeding out all over his hands. It’s bad - she’s got a fist-sized piece of shrapnel lodged in the dip of her sternum, and a twisted pike of railing sliced through her gut. It’s not just blood Snake feels in his palms - it's her intestines slipping out.

He’s not sure what to do at first. He hasn’t been this numb since -

_His one wild eye, his blood-flecked smile - in the darkness of the cargo bay, the hole you punched in his skull looked like it could have gone to the center of the earth._

“Don’t try to say… anything… smooth, American…” Gustava rasps.

“You can talk,” Snake says, for lack of anything less banal to say.

“I… know I’m… dying…”

“Gustava…”

“If you were… me… it’d be obvious…” she tries to laugh, but instead coughs up a mouthful of blood. “I’ve seen… enough people die…”

And yeah, it is obvious.

*

> SNAKE: ... Solid Snake here. Miller, do you read?
> 
> MILLER: I hear you, Snake. What’s going on?
> 
> SNAKE: I... 
> 
> SNAKE: I’m... trapped on one side of a bridge. The wrong side.
> 
> MILLER: A bridge? Is a bridge going to be the thing that finally defeats Solid Snake?
> 
> SNAKE: ...
> 
> MILLER: Bad timing for flippancy, huh?
> 
> SNAKE: Honestly, your timing’s never been great Master.
> 
> MILLER: Fine. I’ll listen.
> 
> SNAKE: No. I...
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> SNAKE: This place... apparently the “locals” call it the ‘Bridge of Sorrow’, because if you cross over it, you’re likely going to your death.
> 
> MILLER: Hmm... That reminds me of a place I saw in Italy.
> 
> SNAKE: When were you in Italy?
> 
> MILLER: In the 70s and 80s I travelled all over. The world seemed bigger back then, before the fall of the Berlin wall and the internet, but for men like me it was all just one endless battlefield. Proxy Wars connected the world more closely than any international airline could hope to.
> 
> SNAKE: Yeah, I guess that’s true.
> 
> MILLER: In Italy there’s a beautiful bridge that crosses over the Rio di Palazzo. They call it _‘Ponte dei sospiri’_ \- the _Bridge of Sighs_. According to local legend, if a couple kisses beneath the bridge, they will be granted eternal love.
> 
> MILLER: But that’s just what the it looks like from the outside - the romance is only for those who can’t see the bars in the windows.
> 
> SNAKE: What’s inside?
> 
> MILLER: The bridge connected the _Prigioni Nuove_ to the interrogation cells inside _Doge’s Palace_. They called it the ‘Bridge of Sighs’ because prisoners crossing it would see their last view of Venice’s skyline before being condemned to either execution, or a life in prison. They sighed because of how lovely and fleeting it all was.
> 
> SNAKE: The man in the gondola beneath the bridge, and the man in chains on the bridge, they see completely different things.
> 
> MILLER: An innocent man has no reason to sigh when he sees the _Ponte dei sospiri_. 
> 
> SNAKE: I’m not an innocent man, Master. I have blood on my hands.
> 
> MILLER: You’re not crossing this bridge in chains, Snake. You’re here by choice.
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: Are you just going to lay down and die?
> 
> SNAKE: Of course not.
> 
> MILLER: Then get up and keep moving.
> 
> SNAKE: Master, can I ask you something?
> 
> MILLER: ... yeah. Sure.
> 
> SNAKE: Why did you join the military?
> 
> MILLER: Heh.
> 
> SNAKE: What’s funny?
> 
> MILLER: After years and years, after everything I’ve said to you... that’s all you want to know?
> 
> SNAKE: You deflecting because you don’t wanna answer?
> 
> MILLER: No, I’m deflecting because I don’t have an answer that makes a convenient sound bite. You’re pretty good at getting a read on people - what do you think?
> 
> SNAKE: You’re Japanese, but you look the way you do... your American father was a soldier, so you wanted to feel closer to him?
> 
> MILLER: Mmm... maybe. The first time I joined up with a fighting force, I definitely had something to prove. I was in the JSDF for a while, but I left because I wanted to see a real fight.
> 
> SNAKE: Why?
> 
> MILLER: Why else? Because I had nowhere else to go, nowhere I belonged. Everything I said back then sounded contradictory - ‘I never want to be poor again’, I said, but I left my comfy military salary to go sleep on the ground in a forest halfway across the world from where I was born.
> 
> MILLER: The truth is I was looking for something that would give my life meaning, somewhere I could belong. You know what it’s like, David, don’t tell me you have no idea what I’m talking about: the easiest way to feel alive is to make sure you’ve stared death in the face. The easiest way to chase that feeling is to keep doing it, over and over again.
> 
> SNAKE: And you found what you were looking for?
> 
> MILLER: Yeah.
> 
> SNAKE: And what was it?
> 
> MILLER: Home.
> 
> SNAKE: I thought you said that Japan was your home.
> 
> MILLER: What you learn after a while is that home isn’t a place, David, it’s a state of being. Once you know who you are and what you want, you can be at home anywhere.
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: David... do you know who you are?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: You’re either the man who turns back now... or you’re the man who’ll cross that bridge.
> 
> MILLER: Don’t disappoint me.  
> 

**1830**

Solid Snake has been climbing a rock-face for twenty minutes.

It’s good. It feels _sincerely_ good: the way the rocks scrape up his forearms, make his fingers bloody, the tug of the climbing equipment against his limbs, working his muscles until they’re sore, until they’re _burning_. One hand above the other, one foot above the other. It’s simple - the task is straightforward, but taxing, the kind of task that fills every corner of the brain.

_Breathe in, breathe out, throw one arm up over the mouth of the cliff -_

It starts to rain a little bit after he pulls himself up over the edge. Not the way it rains in Alberta, or even the way it rained on the West Coast: this is two drops on his face, a scant warning in the hollow calm before the entire sky comes falling down. It’s raining so hard that it’s hard to see - hard to _breathe_. That’s fine - rain hides your presence, masks your footprints. To someone like Snake, rain is a good friend, the harder the better. A dark sky is a welcoming sight to a creature that slithers through the underbrush.

Snake turns on his radio and tunes it until he stops hearing static. He whispers into the mic as he glides towards the perimetre of the prison camp.

“Pretty sloppy, Fox, leaving a frequency I could track.”

No answer. Snake gets down low in the bushes and peers through the slats of the fence - watches the guards huddle beneath the outcroppings of the cement huts, their routes interrupted by the onslaught of the flash flood. There’s a no-smoking sign here too, at the back of the camp.

“I heard the frequency pick up. I know you’re listening.”

A soldier in the camp whips out a smoke - the lit end is a searing beacon in the darkening night. The smoker’s compatriot leans over and mutters something to him, jabs a thumb back towards the no-smoking sign and laughs.

“Me and Doctor Madnar weren’t alone back there, y’know. We had a woman with us. A professional, but she was a civilian not long ago.”

The second soldier leans back against the wall, blocking out the sign. He gestures for the smoker to hand him a cigarette, lights it up. Snake hears a hitch-in-the-throat on the other end of the line. He pulls back from the fence, moves on. From his radio comes a deep, cracked laugh.

_“... are you trying to appeal to my humanity, Snake?”_

>   
>  SNAKE: I don’t know. You’re the one who told me you thought FOXHOUND was like a pack of wild wolves. 
> 
> FOX: Heh, yeah. There’s your answer then. I’m just here looking for my pack, following the Alpha Wolf.
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> FOX: What is it?
> 
> SNAKE: The studies that proposed the Alpha Wolf theory were eventually found fraudulent. Rudolph Schenkel reached his conclusions by putting wolves from different packs into enclosed, unnatural habitats, forcing them to fight over limited resources.
> 
> SNAKE: Real wolf packs are families. The strong take point and head up the rear, protecting the young, the old and the infirm.
> 
> SNAKE: They’re not wild at all. That’s the same time of filial piety that humans express.
> 
> FOX: Heh. I can’t believe you.
> 
> FOX: Even in a place like this... 
> 
> FOX: But in that case, my metaphor was right. We’re all wolves isolated from our pack in Zanzibar Land, but Big Boss gives us purpose.
> 
> SNAKE: What has he done to earn your loyalty like this, Fox. I don’t understand.
> 
> SNAKE: Didn’t he keep you prisoner in Outer Heaven? He betrayed you.
> 
> FOX: ... 
> 
> FOX: He didn’t betray me.
> 
> FOX: He saved my life. Twice.
> 
> FOX: You remember the story I told you about the Tiger Cage? When I was a kid in Vietnam, I lived in a work camp. There was nowhere else for a unwanted half-white to go. I barely even thought of myself as a person, back then.
> 
> FOX: Who do you think it was waiting for me when I pulled myself out of the mud?
> 
> SNAKE: Big Boss... 
> 
> FOX: He gave me his hand and told me to find a better life. It’s the same for everyone here.
> 
> SNAKE: ‘Everyone who does well in FOXHOUND... views Big Boss as either saviour, or captor.’
> 
> FOX: Huh?
> 
> SNAKE: Something Miller told me once.
> 
> FOX: Still hanging on every word the old Hell Master says, Snake?
> 
> SNAKE: It’s not like that.
> 
> FOX: If it’s not like that, why are you here? I told you to go home. You have no obligation to this mission. No obligation to Miller, or to Campbell, or to the United States.
> 
> SNAKE: I do have an obligation.
> 
> SNAKE: I have an obligation to the woman you killed, to continue her mission.
> 
> FOX: ...
> 
> SNAKE: You wanna know her name?
> 
> FOX: ... 
> 
> FOX: I know her name... 
> 
> SNAKE: Fox...
> 
> SNAKE: I have another obligation.
> 
> FOX: ... 
> 
> SNAKE: To a friend.
> 
> SNAKE: To get him the hell out of this place.
> 
> FOX: Ahaha... ha... and go where?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> FOX: Soldiers who come to Outer Heaven don’t leave, Snake. Either they die, or they join up. Beyond the borders of this place, of the battlefield, what is there?
> 
> SNAKE: There’s a whole world out there, Fox.
> 
> FOX: Is there? I tried that once. It ended the same way everything ends - in bloodshed.
> 
> FOX: How about you? How’s life on the outside working for you, Snake?
> 
> FOX: You got someone in your life? Or you living alone?
> 
> FOX: Raising dogs, like you said you would? Keeping in touch with your “friends”?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> FOX: I didn’t think so.
> 
> FOX: I don’t think you’re a liar, Snake, but you’re being played here.
> 
> FOX: So get the hell out of here.
> 
> FOX: _Leave_ , before it’s too late.  
> 

*

> MILLER: What happened?
> 
> SNAKE: I talked to Gray Fox.
> 
> MILLER: What did he have to say?
> 
> SNAKE: All the wrong things. He doesn’t think he has a right to leave. Thinks Big Boss owns him. Thinks the only place for him is on the battlefield.
> 
> MILLER: Hmm.
> 
> MILLER: David, have you ever heard the story of Urashima Taro?
> 
> SNAKE: Master, is this really the time?
> 
> MILLER: Humour me, Snake. I promise it’s relevant to your situation.
> 
> SNAKE: ...
> 
> SNAKE: It’s a Japanese myth, right? About the fisherman who saves a turtle?
> 
> MILLER: Do you know the whole thing?
> 
> SNAKE: No.
> 
> MILLER: The story goes that a kind fisherman by the name of Urashima Taro came upon some children torturing a turtle on the edge of the shore. He chased them off and turned the turtle over so that it could walk again. The turtle was so grateful that it wanted to reward Taro and invited him to come to its underwater kingdom.
> 
> MILLER: It turns out that the turtle was actually a beautiful princess and she wished to marry Taro with the permission of her father, the Sea Emperor. Taro stayed with the princess for three days, but soon found that he missed his mother, who was aging and very ill. Before he made his decision, he wanted to go back to the village of his birth and see her one more time. The turtle princess was sad, but allowed him to go, gifting him with a box called _tamatebako_. “This box will protect you from harm,” she said, “but you must never, ever open it.”
> 
> MILLER: When Taro returned to the shore, he found that everything about his home had changed. The houses were strange, the trees had gotten taller, he didn't recognize any of the people. He asks around, discovers that three hundred years passed while he was under the ocean. A few people dimly recall that a fisherman named Taro had been caught in a storm and disappeared - a matter of local legend, at this point.
> 
> MILLER: His mother is dead. Everyone he knows is dead. The world has changed around him, but he is still the same.
> 
> SNAKE: Hn. So that’s why they call time dilation in space travel the ‘Urashima Effect?’ But what was in the box?
> 
> MILLER: Well, in his grief, Taro opens it without thinking. He becomes an old man in the blink of an eye. 
> 
> SNAKE: Like the story of Pandora’s Box, or the locked basement in _Koschei the Deathless_.
> 
> MILLER: Yeah, on the surface, I guess. But the message is pretty different than the one in those stories - it’s not about curiosity, and it’s definitely not a cautionary tale. The western tale I’d say it most resembles is _Rip Van Winkle_. 
> 
> MILLER: See - I never understood it when I was a kid, but after I left Japan, I found myself thinking of it more and more. And when I went back to Japan for the first time... 
> 
> SNAKE: Master?
> 
> MILLER: ... some people grow old and refuse to change with the times. But some people can’t help it when the world changes around them, they’re merely victims of the times. 
> 
> MILLER: For soldiers, they see things that civilians will never be able to understand. Coming back from a war is like Urashima Taro coming ashore after three days under the ocean - only for a soldier, the people around them are just pretending that three hundred years have passed, do you understand?
> 
> SNAKE: There’s no place for soldiers in the normal world is what you’re saying. They’re casualties of the changing times?
> 
> MILLER: Society relies on men like Gray Fox - like you and me, David - to do the things that most people can’t. But when you come back ashore, no one wants to hear what the world looks like three hundred feet beneath the waterline. Doesn’t it make sense, in that case, that instead of opening the box, Urashima Taro should go back to the Sea Emperor’s castle?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: People who can’t live with that dissonance only have two options. To open the _tamatebako_ \- to _kill_ themselves - or they end up in places like Zanzibar Land.
> 
> SNAKE: ... is that why you left me the dog?
> 
> MILLER: Huh?
> 
> SNAKE: Is that why you gave DD to me? To prevent me from ending up in a place like this? To give me something that would ground me in the world?
> 
> MILLER: Oh. Yeah, kid. Yeah. That’s why I gave you the dog.
> 
> SNAKE: Hmph. How about next time you bring something with a little more time left in it.
> 
> MILLER: Hah! Are you implying that if I had stayed - if I’d _slept_ with you - you wouldn’t be where you are right now?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: Don’t lie to yourself, David. I know you better than this. You know _yourself_ better than this. You know exactly why you’re here.

**2000**

Snake tracks Doctor Madnar through the rain-soaked grass. The storm passes as quick as it rolled in, erasing Snake’s prints but leaving Madnar’s trail clear as day. Snake’s never been the best tracker, but the Doctor doesn’t know what he’s doing, has left deep prints alongside the edge of the prison, ripped his coat on the barbed fence. Snake finds him in a field behind the prison camp, slouched against a rusting supply crate with the tall grass covering his entire body.

Snake walks right up to him, grabs his wrist and yanks him to his feet.

“ _Enough_ of this,” he growls. “It’s almost midnight. We need to secure Dotor Marv.”

Madnar’s head rolls back and he starts to laugh. “Midnight? Wouldn’t that make it Christmas?”

“Yeah, and as a gift the UN’s gonna get a nuclear launch threat just in time for the ham roast. C’mon, Doctor, no more messing around.”

“No!” Madnar yanks his arm free. He stumbles back from the effort and his back hits the crate with a resounding _thud_. “I’m sick of playing this _game_.” Eyes frenzied, Madnar crawls his spider-like hand up the length of his bruised arm, under the torn sleeve, and clutches at something - rips it loose. He slithers a wire free from the cuff of his coat and throws a hidden recording device to the ground. “You hear that!?” he shouts at the radio before stamping it to pieces. “I’m _done_!”

Snake grabs Madnar by the shoulders and shakes him. “Doctor, what the hell is going on here!?”

Madnar’s bloodshot eyes are as white and bright as spotlights beneath the emerging moon. “Don’t you understand!?” he rasps. “Doctor Kio Marv _isn’t in_ Zanzibar Land! It was all a diversion - you think that they would put all their eggs in one basket like this? But I’m tired of being bait, of playing this role for Big Boss and… and his _accountant_! I came here to work for them _willingly_ , but still they treat me like this!?”

This is a lot to process. Snake sets Madnar back against the crate gently and pulls back - giving the Doctor room to breathe, but no room to bolt. His mind is spinning in wheels, spooling all the new information together, making a tapestry of it. One thing at a time - _keep your head in the mission. A sloppy soldier is a dead soldier_.

“What do you mean Kio Marv isn’t here?”

“I mean what I _said_ : he is no hostage - Zanzibar Land has been funding him since the beginning. Once he learned that he was on their payroll, he had no choice but to do what they said. But they wouldn’t bring him here, not with your friend Campbell and the CIA sniffing at their heels.”

“Are they bluffing then, about their nuclear capabilities?”

“Of course not. You know as well as I do that Big Boss does not bluff.”

“Then what-?”

“You’re asking the wrong _questions_ ,” Madnar hisses, jabbing his finger into Snake’s sternum. “Not _what_ , not _why_ , but _who_.”

“... who?”

“It’s all a gamble, a last stand… the UN would come sniffing eventually, but the _Boss_ and the _Commander_ have their fingers in more pies than you’d think. They have stacked the odds in their favour. Why do think that it’s you that was sent here?”

Snake grabs Madnar by the front of his sweaty shirt and yanks him up, “ _what_!?”

“They wanted _you_ here. Every step you’ve taken has been predicted, curated, _anticipated_. Hoped for. By someone very close to you.”

“And why should I trust you,” Snake asks, voice very low, very _controlled_. “When you’ve done nothing but lie to me since the moment we met up?”

It’s irresponsible to take aggression out on a civilian like this, but there’s a dam in Snake’s brain keeping out questions, emotions, implications - well, less like a dam and more like a thin membrane that’s being flexed, pushed, scraped away layer by layer. It’s bad to think too much on a mission, but everything he’s seen here today is hammering at the back of his skull like a headache, an itch he can’t scratch. 

Madnar’s lip quirks beneath his moustache, but it’s not a smile - it’s something else, a feral expression, like the kind Snake sometimes saw on his comrades in the field, like what he saw on the face of the man he killed in Outer Heaven before putting a fist through it... what he saw in his own reflection when he boarded the helicopter afterwards. Madnar’s been out here long enough to adopt it, to _feel_ it. That desperate, primal, animal desire for self-preservation.

“I’ll tell you something that you don’t know, then,” Madnar says, his eyes tracking movement over Snake’s shoulder. “We’re not alone in this field-”

Snake turns to catch the flash of night vision goggles through the grass in the split second before he’s sprayed with a wave of napalm. He throws himself over Madnar to shield him from the blast. The fire licks against his back, searing the fabric of his fatigues and heating up the kevlar beneath.

“ _Run_!” he shouts at Madnar, throwing himself against the broad side of the crate. He draws his pistol, takes a moment to catch his breath, to prepare. When he opens his eyes, he can feel himself grinning.

*

It’s fast - a battle this desperate always feels like hours in the thick of it, its own little pocket universe - but the aftermath tells the truth: barely three minutes pass between when the assailant shows himself, and when he keels over. He burns half the field down, the flames lighting up the night in static bursts, like the flash of a camera. The flames unfold like petals, raking liquid bright fingers against the perimetre fence. Snake dodges from crate to crate, tracking his foe’s movement even through his blind spot. The problem with this man’s tactic is that unless he kills Snake fast, he’ll eliminate all his cover.

The night-vision goggles give him away a second time. Snake peels out from his hiding place, calmly adjusts his aim and puts a bullet in the tank. The assailant goes up like a candle - one last burst of florid colour in a black, black night - and then he falls over. 

Snake approaches him slowly, looks over his burnt body - armour melted into his sloughing skin, the scent of burnt meat rising from his exposed arms. He’s gesturing towards his face weakly, making a pulling motion with his charred hand. The plastic of his face guard has melted into the fabric of his mask, making it impossible for him to speak. Snake throws his pistol on the ground and falls to his knees, slipping the knife from his boot so that he can cut the man’s mouth free.

“What is it?”

“M-my…. pock… et…”

Snake has to cut that open too. Inside is a charred - but mostly intact - security clearance card. Snake examines it, flips it over to read the number on the back. 

“Why?” he asks.

The man’s already dead.

“I already told you why, Solid Snake… someone wants you here.” Snake didn’t hear Madnar sneak up behind him, but he _does_ hear Madnar pull back the slide of his pistol, loading another bullet into the chamber. He whips to his feet, but Madnar’s just holding the gun, looking at it with a conflicted expression.

“Don’t do anything crazy, Doctor,” Snake puts up his arms, takes a step forward. Madnar matches his steps and backs off, clutching the gun tightly in his wrinkled hands.

“I wondered why, but I see now. Maybe you belong here.”

“Madnar,” Snake cautions, “drop the gun. We can talk this out. You’re gonna get out of here.”

Madnar smiles softly. “No, I won’t. I’m not like you, or the Boss, or that man right there. War is no game for me. There’s only one way for me to quit.”

Doctor Madnar raises the gun to his temple and blows his own brains out.

*

> SNAKE: Solid Snake calling in. Campbell, do you read?
> 
> CAMPBELL: Snake! We were getting worried here at mission command! Are you okay?
> 
> SNAKE: A lot’s happened.
> 
> CAMPBELL: Report in, soldier.
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> SNAKE: I might have a lock on Metal Gear’s position. I’m going in.
> 
> CAMPBELL: That’s it?
> 
> CAMPBELL: What about Doctor Marv?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> CAMPBELL: Snake?
> 
> CAMPBELL: Snake... is it... Big Boss?
> 
> SNAKE: Campbell, why did you call me in for this mission?
> 
> CAMPBELL: Because you’re the best, Snake. My current recruits are no slouches, but there’s no one here who’s done what you’ve done.
> 
> SNAKE: What I’ve done. Destroyed Metal Gear?
> 
> CAMPBELL: ... 
> 
> SNAKE: You said that you had no idea Metal Gear was being built here.
> 
> CAMPBELL: Snake, I’d never lie to you intentionally, but ever since the Outer Heaven rebellion, the DOD has been watching us like hawks. I can barely take a shit without some CIA grunt staring down the barrel of their gun into my bathroom window. My mail, my phone-calls, this radio frequency... 
> 
> SNAKE: Yeah, I get it.
> 
> CAMPBELL: But I felt this was my responsibility. 
> 
> SNAKE: Our responsibility.
> 
> CAMPBELL: Miller agreed. Big Boss was our mistake.
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> CAMPBELL: Snake, I’m sorry.
> 
> SNAKE: No, Colonel... I agree.
> 
> CAMPBELL: Huh?
> 
> SNAKE: You’re right. It is our responsibility.
> 
> SNAKE: Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.
> 
> CAMPBELL: Snake, wait! You have-!
> 
> [CLICK]

*

Snake finds another kid at the perimetre fence. He looks about eleven, dressed in too-big fatigues. His eyes get bigger and bigger as Snake approaches him.

“I made a lot of noise - you the only one coming?”

The boy nods, peeling his hands off the fence pole he’s clinging to. “I said that I’d check it out.”

“Heh -” Snake pulls out a cigarette, laughs around it. “Big responsibility for such a small soldier.”

“I know what I’m doing,” the boy insists petulantly. He takes a knife out of his belt and flips it expertly - two twirls in the air, loops it around his wrist before catching it harmlessly by the blade and presenting it to Snake hilt first. Snake nods, then pulls out his gun, clicking the safety off as he aims it straight at the boy’s face. Instantly - _instinctively_ \- the boy’s feet slide through the grass and he enters a perfect CQC stance, light on the balls of his feet and knife poised to strike. Snake grunts approvingly.

“Pretty good moves, kid, but hasn’t anyone ever told you not to bring a knife to a gunfight?”

The boy doesn’t flinch. Instead, his eyes flicker towards the unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of Snake’s mouth. He relaxes, but doesn’t let the knife drop. “Hey Mister - give me one.”

Snake slides his gun back into its holster and flicks out his lighter instead. The kid’s eyes hungrily track the motion of his thumbs as he triggers the flint and lights his smoke. “These aren’t for kids.”

The boy rolls his eyes and sheaths his knife. “Everyone knows that. Even the Boss doesn’t let us smoke.”

Snake takes a drag off his cigarette, then crouches down so he and the kid are eye-level. He puffs out a cloud of smoke, right in his face. The boy scrunches up his nose and stumbles back.

“There’s a reason for it. It tastes horrible, and it’s bad for your lungs.”

The boy waves the smoke out of his nose and glares at Snake through the dissolving cloud. Snake smiles at him, he hopes kindly.

“Kid, tell me about the Boss.”

The kid crosses his arms and clicks his teeth together, rolling around his potential answer in his mouth. “The Boss is… like you, I guess.”

“Like me?”

“Yeah,” the boy raises his chin, gesturing towards the burnt field. “He’s really good. The best there is. All us kids wanna be like him.”

“Really? You know that only one can ‘be the best’, right?”

The boy shrugs, “it’s not a competition. The Boss says all you gotta do to be like him is live long enough, survive enough fights.”

“Yeah,” Snake taps the end of his cigarette. The embers die instantly on the wet ground. “That’s true. So the Boss is the big guy in charge? He the only one?”

The boy shakes his head. His hair is overgrown and falls in his freckled face whenever he moves. “Nah, there’s a buncha lieutenants.” He looks at the charred field again, at the man Snake just burnt to death. “... you killed most of them, though.”

Snake glances back at the corpse as well, just for a moment. “Yeah?”

“Mmm hmm. They’re really good fighters. But there’s still Fox, and the Commander.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Fox is,” the boy covers his nose. “Kinda scary looking, but he always teaches us kids cool knife tricks. I like him because he’s honest. The Commander is…” the kid stops to sigh, tips his head. “He… smiles a lot, but he’s really distant. Seems nice, but he’s actually kinda mean, y’know.”

“I know the type,” Snake mutters.

“The Commander is with the Boss all the time. He has a… scary arm, but I’ve never seen him use it on anyone. Whenever he catches one of us, he makes us do work, or reading, so we avoid him.”

“Hnh, got it. Scary face. Scary arm. The Boss is the best. Thanks for the intel kid.” Snake pushes up to his feet and inhales one last dreg from his cigarette. He nubs it out, half-smoked, and tosses it into the grass. The boy’s big eyes follow it as it bounces twice and lands at his feet. He hesitates a moment, then dives forwards and pinches the discarded cigarette between his fingers, holding it aloft like it’s made of gold.

“Hey, Mister -” the boy stops Snake from leaving. When Snake looks back at him, the kid already has the cigarette at the corner of mouth, dangling lazily, like he’s a cowboy in an old movie. “You probably wanna know where the robot is, right?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna blow it up. You don’t think it’s a little disloyal to point me right to it?”

“Nah,” the kid laughs. “I don’t think you can beat the Boss anyway.”

Snake sets a hand on his hip. “What if I do?”

The kid rolls his shoulders back, taking a fake hit off the burnt-out cigarette. He’s completely nonchalant about the idea of his hero biting the dust. “Well - if you do, then you’re the best, right? So it’s fine. That’s the law here.”

“Yeah,” Snake replies, dumbly.

When said like that, with the simplicity of a child’s understanding, it really does make a perverse kind of sense.

It’s only when he’s tracked back to the cliff’s edge that Snake realizes his boots are so caked in mud that they’ve become heavy. He peers out over the edge of the cliff - the Command Center has been swallowed by the thick blanket of nightfall. The nights don’t even get this dark under the shadow of the Rockies; the only thing indicating that there’s anything across the chasm besides darkness is the faint light on top of the Tower Building, the slow blink of the base’s communications system sending out messages into the void. Walking back into the jungle, jumping off the cliff - it looks the same from where Snake’s standing.

He takes another smoke break, a full one this time. The smoke spirals out towards the broken bridge, gets swallowed by the night. “And miles to go before I sleep,” he mutters to himself, throwing the cigarette into the ravine. Just one or two more things and then he can go…

\- he can go...

_Go where?_

*

>   
>  SNAKE: ... is that why you left me the dog?
> 
> MILLER: Huh?
> 
> SNAKE: Is that why you gave DD to me? To prevent me from ending up in a place like this? To give me something that would ground me in the world?
> 
> MILLER: Oh. Yeah, kid. Yeah. That’s why I gave you the dog.
> 
> SNAKE: Hmph. How about next time you bring something with a little more time left in it.
> 
> MILLER: Hah! Are you implying that if I had stayed - if I’d slept with you - you wouldn’t be where you are right now?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: Don’t lie to yourself, David. I know you better than this. You know yourself better than this. You know exactly why you’re here.
> 
> MILLER: You want to know why Gray Fox is here instead of in America? Why don’t you take a long, hard look at yourself.
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: Why are you here? Why are you in Zanzibar Land?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: Because it’s a matter of international security?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: Because Roy Campbell asked you personally, as a favour to him?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: Because it was the right thing to do?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: You had no idea that either Gray Fox or Big Boss were here until a couple of hours ago, so don’t try to tell me that you’re tying off loose ends either.
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: ‘Justice’. ‘Charity’. ‘Duty’. ‘Closure’. They’re pretty excuses, all right, but they don’t hold water. You’re a brilliant man, David, and you can philosophize it all you want, but you’re here for the exact same reason that Gray Fox is here. You might be fighting on opposite sides, but it’s all theater: the both of you are thinking the exact same thing
> 
> SNAKE: ... Master...
> 
> MILLER: David. You’ve still got a lot to learn. And a very, very long way to go.
> 
>  

**2130**

When he examines all of the evidence in the correct order, Snake realizes that it should have been obvious. Miller, in fact, quit FOXHOUND almost immediately after Big Boss’ “death”. That alone should have clued him in-

 _\- but why would you be looking for a thing like that_? Snake tells himself. And it’s not just Miller, but Gray Fox as well. It was like Miller had said: everyone who did well in FOXHOUND viewed Big Boss either as saviour or jailer. From that perspective, Campbell’s FOXHOUND was a pale imitation, barely a shadow of the organization Big Boss had made great. The real FOXHOUND was right here in the deep, dark heart of Zanzibar Land.

“What’s with the dilly-dallying, Snake?” blares Miller’s chipper voice over the loud-speaker. “It’s not like you to get lost in thought on the job like this. I hope retirement hasn’t made you _dull_ -”

A spotlight reels through the trees and beams down on Snake’s position.

“Cause I gotta tell you,” and Miller _laughs_ , “it’s really put the spring back in my step!”

Snake squints up at the spotlight only to see that its movement is controlled by an automatic mechanism, probably through radio transmission. He ducks out of the light and feels the ground go out from underneath him - a trap door, buried under several inches of moss. Snake shoots one arm up to catch himself on the edge as the bottom goes out beneath him; the fall would have easily broken his ankles.

“Watch out, kid,” Miller says helpfully, moving the spotlight so that it’s right in Snake’s eyes again. “The whole area is rigged like that. It’d be safer to crawl where the underbrush is too thick to see the tripwires.”

Snake struggles out of the hole, but the moment his feet are on solid ground, something takes a shot at him. He dives, searching for the tell-tale track of a sniper’s scope through the treeline. What he sees is an unmanned gun turret. He rolls so that he’s back against the large, flat root of a ceiba tree - out of the gun’s line of sight - and digs out his radio, still tuned to Miller’s frequency.

“Shouldn’t be surprised this is how you try to take me out,” he hisses. “You’re a real control freak, aren’t you, Master Miller?”

Miller answers over the loudspeaker. “Is that supposed to make me feel ashamed? Like I said - you wanted a fair fight. We’re both in our element, right now!”

Snake peeks out over the arc of the tree root and watches the spotlight scan the ground, searching for him. “This is your element, huh? In the shadows, pulling strings?”

“Yeah. I think everything you’ve seen here today has made it clear that the world needs strong leaders. And strong leaders need detail-oriented guys like me to keep everything tidy and in order. I know who I am. It’s you who has no idea where he belongs...”

“Oh? Really? I crossed the bridge, didn’t I?”

“You did. So tell me:” and the spotlight snaps around to shine right down on Snake’s position. “Who _are_ you?”

The question is punctuated by a hail of automatic gunfire. It’s not aimed to kill, but a bullet whizzes by Snake’s arm and tears through the fabric of his uniform. He leaps back, lands on his ass with surprising grace, and stops himself from bolting. His natural instinct is to run to the next bit of cover, the next shadow, but he can tell Miller is corralling him, remembers what Miller said earlier about the tripwires. He glances down to see a thin, silver flash just beside his right hand. He’s in a maze of wires right now, can see them crisscrossing beneath the ferns, looped around the tree roots like a sick game of cat’s cradle. Snake trusts himself to move slow here. There’s no spotlight in this part of the forest, and Miller’s not done talking.

“One thing that’s always surprised me about you, David,” the loudspeaker is muffled by distance and direction. “- is that you’re so _good_ at following orders. So content to let others take charge, to tell you what to do.”

Snake hooks his radio into his front pocket, doesn’t turn it off. “Why is that so surprising?” He speaks quietly, moving with fleet precision through the trip-wires. This time, Miller responds on the radio.

“For a lot of reasons, actually. There’s so much you don’t know. About the Boss’ and I’s goals, about your government, about what’s really going on in the world…”

Snake gets down in the brush; he’s found a hollowed-out log large enough to squeeze himself into with plenty of room to scramble if things get hectic. He pulls his radio close to his mouth and speaks directly into it.

 

> SNAKE: You know, Master, I’d really like to stick around and listen to all this, but in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have the time for chit chat.
> 
> MILLER: You’re really sore about not getting to personally punch my face in, aren’t you?
> 
> MILLER: What, did you think we were gonna wrestle in the mud a little?
> 
> SNAKE: Wouldn’t have minded that, to be honest.
> 
> MILLER: Ahaha! Ha!
> 
> MILLER: Jesus _Christ_ , kid - I really got under your skin, didn’t I?
> 
> SNAKE: Wasn’t that the intended effect?
> 
> MILLER: I didn’t set out to go about it that way. I just wanted to be your friend, your mentor - open your eyes to a few truths about the world - but you were so _desperate_. I was almost embarrassed for you. It’s like no one had ever thrown a kind word at you in your entire life.
> 
> MILLER: Putting that much power in someone’s court - wanting them to be your friend, your father, your lover... _David_ , that’s how you get taken advantage of. For someone so smart, you’re pretty dumb.
> 
> SNAKE: Heh -
> 
> SNAKE: You know, Master, I always thought you were full of shit, but now I _know_ you’re full of shit.
> 
> MILLER: Is that so?
> 
> SNAKE: If that’s the case, why did you leave, that last night you were in the US?
> 
> MILLER: I had somewhere to be.
> 
> SNAKE: Really? But if you’d stayed, that would have really gotten me under your thumb, huh?
> 
> MILLER: Don’t you think this is an _awfully personal_ conversation to be having over an open radio frequency, David?
> 
> SNAKE: Why? There someone you don’t want listening in?
> 
> SNAKE: Someone not know how sloppy you’ve been?
> 
> SNAKE: I know what I saw, Miller - you came to my apartment with every intention of seducing me. Why’d you lose your nerve?
> 
> MILLER: ... 

 

Miller’s end of the line goes silent. Not like he’s stopped talking - it blanks out completely. Snake breathes evenly, listens, but not well enough. He should have been able to anticipate what happens, but it’s not until he hears a second click - a button being released - that he starts moving. Miller manually blows the C4 and the entire _goddamn_ area goes up. The log is blown over and cracked apart by the blast and Snake rolls with it, elbowing free from his rapidly disintegrating makeshift armour as he goes. He lands on the bank of a shallow river. Through the rain of wood-gut and smouldering leaves, he can see that he’s belly up in the middle of another rigged clearing.

He moves quicker this time, taking a deep breath and diving under the water before the explosion hits. He feels it wash over him; the force of it tumbles him through the current, rakes him over the sharp rocks at the river-bottom. He comes up coughing on the other side, right in the center of the training course. The side of the river he left behind is on fire, casting mellow, orange light over the rope-bridge and rappel towers. There would be a strange sense of familiarity to it if Snake’s nose wasn’t clogged with smoke.

As Snake staggers to his feet - discovers that, shit, there’s a wedge of blackened bark embedded in his left thigh - another spotlight booms on and zeroes in on him. Then another, and another, until he’s blinking back against three giant, prying eyes.

“You know, David,” Miller sighs over the loudspeaker. “When you took out that helicopter earlier… the soldier piloting it was one of my best men.”

Snake takes his time to assess this part of the gauntlet as he calmly slides the splinter from his skin one agonizing inch at a time. The turrets here are mini-guns so they can’t be aimed as carefully, probably blast off on a set, automatic sweep. There’s cover all over the track, funneling towards the cliff-face at the other end of the clearing. The canopy is thin here, and the moon shines through.

Miller continues: “One of my most _loyal_ men, too. He’s been with us since the 80’s - the sort of guy who’d never hurt a fly, even if he _was_ in the military.”

“Sorry to hear that!” Snake shouts. He’s certain that Miller’s close - the Hell Master sounds out of breath, like he’s been on the move.

“I was thinking,” Miller says, “that since you’re the one who killed him, it’s only right that you sign up. Take his place on the payroll.”

The mini-guns begin to wind up. Their rotors whip up a cloud of dust and moss, the sound slices through the eerily still night like a heated wire through wax. 

“If you survive this, we’ll take a look at your resume!”

The first wave of bullets splits through the clearing and Snake runs for his damn life.

*

It’s exhausting - moving slow and low to the ground puts an ache in your thighs that turns the rest of your body to jelly. The turrets are so loud that it’s like torture the closer Snake gets. The steady, monotone THUT-THUT-THUT of gatling rounds going off, the thick sound of the bullets hitting wood, rocks, metal... it makes it almost impossible to think. It takes Snake _minutes_ to dodge through the cover and reach the back of the track.

“Usually we use rubber bullets,” Miller’s running commentary continues. “But sometimes we don’t.”

“You have to be strong to survive here.”

“Everyone who signs up knows that war’s not a joke, it’s not a game - it’s not something that you turn off when you’re sick of it, not for soldiers. It’s a way of life.”

Snake glides up against the cliff-face silently, his head pounding, his nerves on fire and his heart, admittedly, a bit tender.

It _hurts_. With Big Boss… Big Boss was so large, so hard to conceive of as a man rather than an icon, that it was just as easy to think of him as your enemy as it was to think of him as your friend. Both things had the same unbearable emotional weight. But Miller? He’d cruelly cultivated Snake’s trust with just a few drops of sincerity. Fox had warned him years ago: _don’t trust a dog that fakes a wound_ , but Miller’s wounds weren’t the scars, or the missing limbs. There were deeper, darker wounds underneath, ones that slept close to the surface of his skin.

Snake gets behind the turrets. He uses his knife to slice the transmitter lines out of one and shoots the other down. He shoots out two of the spotlights and the loud-speaker for good measure too. Then, and only then, does he finally see the faint glimmer of a sniper sight flit over the clearing.

“There we go,” Snake laughs into his radio, folding himself up against a tree to hide from the sight as he talks. Miller takes a shot, and takes a chunk out of the bark. Splinters fly past Snake’s face. “Now, this is a real fight.”

“You really like to fight that much, Snake?” Miller’s voice crackles through the line. He laughs too. “You _are_ just like him.”

Snake works himself into a crack in the cliff - a blind-spot, hidden by trees - and begins to pull himself up to the top. He sees the rifle sight bounce around the course a few more times before moving on. Miller’s running again; Snake climbs faster.

On the high ground, beneath the ferns, he begins to crawl, begins to listen, track - look for subtle movements, bits of light. It’s hard with his burns from earlier, his arms sore from climbing; he didn’t get hit by the turrets, not directly, but there had been a few close calls and he’s leaving blood all over the leaves. In daylight, it’d be unacceptable.

“Is that what this has all been about? If Big Boss wanted me here so bad, why didn’t he just ask me himself?”

“Would it really have been so simple?”

Snake hears a small blast go off near him - explosives, set near the top of the trees, designed to drop the canopy. He gets his by a stray branch, but the bulk of it misses him; good, Miller has no idea where he is. Another blast goes off, this time behind him. Miller takes a few shots directly into the rubble. Snake chuckles into his radio. _Good try_.

 

> SNAKE: Right. So, manipulation was supposed to make me amenable?
> 
> MILLER: [sigh]
> 
> MILLER: David, do you really believe all that shit you said to Miss Heffner? About Love and loyalty? All those lofty ideals?
> 
> SNAKE: You were listening in?
> 
> MILLER: The good Doctor had a wire on him remember? And orders to not stray very far.
> 
> SNAKE: Hnh.
> 
> SNAKE: Yeah. I do, actually, believe “all that shit”.
> 
> MILLER: Really. Then tell me something.
> 
> MILLER: If not for love or loyalty, why do you think anyone is here?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> MILLER: You think we’re lost? You think we’re scared? You think no one here has thought through the implications?
> 
> MILLER: It’s out _there_ \- back on the shore, David - where all those things you believe in are lies, disposable truths that can change stripes from day to day. 
> 
> MILLER: Fox was your friend, but will you fight him today? Just because you were ordered to?
> 
> MILLER: You and me, David: we’re not enemies. We’re both soldiers.
> 
> MILLER: In the foxhole, only two things truly matter: survival, and loyalty.
> 
> MILLER: I know who I am and where I belong: I’m someone who stayed by my Boss’ side until the end, until the very last thing he asked me to do.
> 
> MILLER: Not for any lofty philosophy or ideology. Not because I believe in Zanzibar Land, or because I believed in Outer Heaven. Because I realized when I was very young that nationalism is cheap and artificial, and someone is always trying to use you.
> 
> MILLER: You gotta choose where to plant your flag. You need to be free to choose who you stand by.  
> 

 

Miller sets off another charge. This time, it’s spot on. Snake tries to roll away, but he gets pinned beneath the broad arm of a scarred kapok. The rifle goes off and blasts open a root to Snake’s right and Snake starts breathing again - it was just luck. Miller doesn’t know he’s pinned. He keeps a handle on his lungs as he tugs his leg free, gives nothing away.

The second and third shots bury themselves one and two inches above Snake’s head.

 

> MILLER: That’s the deal, Snake. How does it sound?
> 
> SNAKE: ... 
> 
> SNAKE: Master, didn’t you once tell me -
> 
> SNAKE: - that when you met Big Boss, he was going to kill you?
> 
> MILLER: ... 
> 
> SNAKE: Didn’t you tell me that you once viewed him as your captor? Was that a lie too?
> 
> MILLER: ... 
> 
> SNAKE: Because if that’s true, it doesn’t sound like you had much of a choice at all.
> 
> MILLER: I had a choice.
> 
> SNAKE: Heh... 
> 
> SNAKE: ... well, in that case, I think it sounds pretty pathetic.
> 
> MILLER: Hmph.
> 
> MILLER: Then I guess we have nothing else to talk about.
> 
> MILLER: Goodbye, David.  
> 

 

Miller’s right: there’s nothing left to say, but not for the reason he thinks - it’s because Snake has figured out where he is. It was easy, after one of the sniper rounds cut a bit too close to his face, to visualize his position. Besides - his metal leg has left _very_ faint footprints in the moss where his flesh leg left none.

It’s not hard to sneak with the wet ground dampening the fall of his footsteps. This is familiar too - walking slowly, lifting his heel with great care to mitigate the noticeable squelch that groans out of water-logged earth. Even with his fake limbs making him mostly intact, Miller cuts an imposing, unmistakeable figure. Snake draws his gun. Aims. Clicks off the safety.

Miller turns on his heel: he’s barely visible against the pitch-black foliage but his sunglasses flash in the moonlight. David doesn’t hesitate. He pulls the trigger on instinct. Master Miller goes down in one shot.


	11. Home

**1957**

The mid-May rain sees Yokosuka’s streets swaddled in a soft blanket of fog that lingers between the storms. It gets into every crack of the narrow streets - clinging to the sharp spices wafting from restaurant fronts, drawing out warm scents from the antique wooden walls and beading on the new cement like summer sweat. The fog dims the lights, turning neons into pastels and the roads into glittering rivers of dashed stars: green, pink and blue. It’s a beautiful aura, one that strips _Souvenir Street_ of its cheap artificiality, makes it feel less like a performance put up to satiate the hunger of _Amerikajin_ and more like a place someone could call home.

Kazuhira’s shoes have holes in them and when he runs, the rubber sole on the left one goes flapping, smacking his heel each time he lifts it, kicking up a hard splash whenever he hits a puddle. That’s the kind of thing you get used to, though, and he’s only tripped over it a few times like this, chasing after people on the wet pavement.

“Hey, Americans!”

There’s no other westerners on the street during the lull between the shops closing and the nightclubs opening: just Kazuhira, and these two tall sailors, their white uniforms stained in neon light. They turn when Kazuhira calls out to them. Fujita-san, who owns the ramen shop, is sweeping her stoop; she glances up with a chiding curl to her lip, having seen this song and dance more than once.

“I… have to show you something. Picture.”

“Huh,” the first sailor - green eyes, sandy hair - laughs. “Pretty good english for a “ _hafu_ ”.”

Kazuhira bites the inside of his mouth and forces himself to smile. The neighbours remind him enough that he’s _konketsuji_ , he doesn’t need to hear it from the _Amerikajin_ too. He tosses his head back and digs the photograph he found in his mother’s dresser out of his pants pocket. The man in it is blonde, light-eyed and square-jawed. Handsome like the kind of men you saw in American films and advertisements. Kazuhira holds it out and says, in studiously practiced english:

“Do you know this man?”

The second sailor - a dark haired man with a beard so thick he looks like a bear - takes the photograph and looks it over seriously. His brow wrinkles, and he hands it to his friend. Green eyes pops the pink bubblegum he’s chewing, then shakes his head.

“Sorry kid, never seen him.”

Same answer as usual. Kazuhira sighs and takes the picture back, runs his fingers over the corners to make sure it doesn’t wrinkle.

“Who is it?”

“My father,” Kazuhira answers easily. The two soldiers share a brief look - Kazuhira can tell that’s it’s condescending, that it’s a jeer. Green eyes crouches down so that he can catch Kazuhira’s eyes, look him straight on with his lip turned up mockingly. 

He taps the photograph and asks: “you think if you contact this man, he’ll want to talk to you?”

“He is my father,” Kazuhira repeats confidently. “Why not?”

“Because you’re a _bastard_ ,” Kazuhira doesn’t recognize the word, but he can guess the context. His forced smile just gets wider. The sailor continues: “he probably has a wife and a kid of his own back in America. An _American_ wife and kid.”

“I…” Kazuhira steels his jaw and looks the soldier right in the eye. “I _am_ American.”

“Really? You sure don’t sound like one.”

Kazuhira twitches - it starts in his left eye and travels all the way down one side of his body, spiking an overwhelming desire to clench into a fist through the bones of his hand. He’s not good enough at english to form a clever retort and that makes him feel helpless. _Well_ , he thinks, _I’m sure as hell not Japanese_. He casts around for some sort of explanation, something that will prove to this man that he’s not just some delusional half-orphan clinging to a fairy-tale his mother told him. With them, it was different.

“He… care for my mother,” Kazuhira says. Green eyes bursts out laughing. He pulls to his feet and slaps his friend on the back.

“Did you hear that? Yeah, I _bet_ he took care of her!”

Kazuhira tips his head to one side. That’s what he just said, why was the sailor repeating it. “What?” 

“Kid -” the sailor drawls out his, broad, mocking vowels, “this guy isn’t gonna want to acknowledge you . Your mother is a _whore_.”

\- and Kazuhira recognizes _that_ word. He sees red instantly, but he’s able to control his temper long enough to carefully place his father’s photograph in his back pocket and then roll up his left sleeve. The sailors have turned down the road again, heading towards the dark mouth of the harbour. The one who made the offending comment is halfway through lighting a cigarette when Kazuhira barrels into his waist and tackles him to the ground. He pins the man face-first into the street and begins punching him in the side of the head as hard as he can. The man starts swearing in incomprehensible english, but Kazuhira gets a few good hits in before the bearded friend yanks him up by his elbow and lifts him off the ground. Kazuhira twists in the air, kicks ineffectually, feels his arm nearly pop out of its socket.

“Ahaha! Hey - this one’s scrappy.”

“He’s a _fucking savage_ , is what he is!”

“You’ve got to admit, Phil, you deserved that.”

Bearded man drops Kazuhira on his ass. He lands in a puddle, hard on his tailbone. Green eyes is on his feet again, wiping blood and mud off his furious face. The first few drops of an impending rainstorm hit the shoulders of his uniform. He grabs the front of Kazuhira’s shirt and pulls him up so that he has good leverage when he punches him square in the mouth. Kazuhira is thrown against the ground again, but he barely feels the pain. He likes fighting; it’s easy, and it’s the kind of things even Americans like this respond to. If all he has to do to prove himself is stand up straight with blood streaming down his face, that’s good. That’s fine. He can stand up again and again. A broken nose is good, but defeat is unacceptable. He wipes the blood from his lip and -

*

_\- Kaz wipes a drop of tequila from his lip, then calls out to the top of the platform. “Hey, you can’t just hide out here all night!”_

 _Big Boss,_ of course, _is huddled in the dark smoking, three whole struts away from the party he was supposed to be attending. Kaz sways drunkenly up the stairs, clinging to the railing as he shines his flashlight over the sharp panes of Snake’s grumpy goddamn face. Snake grunts and shields his eyes against the light, chomping down hard on his lit cigar. Kaz snaps the flashlight off and hooks it on his belt; he follows the glow of Snake’s cigar the rest of the way up._

_“If you fall into the ocean,” Snake grumbles. “I’m not coming after you.”_

_Kaz stumbles the last few steps, but he manages not to topple over the rail. He leans against it and stares Snake down._

_“Snake.”_

_“The party’s been going for two hours. Isn’t it about time for you to start trying to sing and take off your pants?”_

_“Mosquito was singing, actually,” Kaz corrects. “Elvis. I was just playing the guitar.”_

_Snake rolls his shoulders back and takes another drag off his cigar._

_“Besides -” Kaz shoots Snake what he hopes is a_ jokingly _seductive look. “Thanks to a certain someone’s certain ultimatum, I’m not supposed to take my pants off for just anyone.”_

_Snake raises an eyebrow. “Is that why you came up here?”_

_Kaz shakes his head. “Of course not.” He turns around and slings his folded arms over the rail. With alcohol in his system, there’s nothing intimidating about the height. The air-traffic lights and the stars and the moon make a breath-taking, glittering expanse of the ocean. Kaz feels a genuine clench around his heart, an emotion almost too much to bear: he loves this ocean, he loves this sky, he loves his job and he loves Mother Base and he loves -_

_He shuts his eyes and sighs. “Boss, it’s bad for morale if you don’t make at least one appearance.” Big Boss has been distant since ZEKE was hijacked, and understandably so, but his newfound introvertedness was changing the tenor of their army as quickly as they were gaining recruits. Kaz felt like he was working double-time, doing both his own PR and Snake’s._

_He can hear Snake tapping the ash off the end of his cigar. “... I’m thinking.”_

_“About what?”_

_“Cipher.”_

_It’s just a force of habit, the way Kaz stops breathing whenever he hears that word. Six months ago, those two syllables falling from Snake’s lips were, Kaz was pretty certain, the last thing he would hear before death. He thought about it a lot, woke up in cold sweats about it sometimes._

_“Ah,” he says. Snake pads across the platform and comes to stand beside him, puffing out a ribbon of smoke over the ocean. The night is so still that his exhale sounds like the howl of distant wind._

_“In a way, I should thank him. Zero showed me what I was doing wrong. If he hadn’t done what he did, I’d still be on the wrong path.”_

_Kaz frowns where Snake can’t see him. What he wants to do is punch Zero in his smug, limey face - whatever the hell that looked like - but he can see where Snake is coming from. “I… I’m glad you’re finally letting go of the past, Snake.”_

_“The past is dead, Kaz. I won’t let it control me.”_

_“Of course not. We have to focus on the future, on building the MSF -”_

_Snake shakes his head, cuts him off: “I won’t let the future control me either.”_

_\- and something sharp has wedged its way into Snake’s tone, it makes his voice guttural, bleeds a bit of its calm. So Kaz just nods. “Okay, Boss. I’ll back you up, as usual.”_

_Snake shoots him a sidelong glance. “You need to let go of the past too, Kaz.”_

_“Boss?”_

_Big Boss reaches out and puts two calloused fingers to Kaz’s jugular, rests them right against the vein. “Your pulse is elevated. You’re still anxious, even after we discussed this.”_

_“Well,” Kaz laughs, thin and unconvincing. “I mean, I_ lied _to you.”_

_“And then you told me the truth. Although you certainly did sit on it long enough.”_

_Kaz pulls away, turns his head so that Snake can’t read his face. “I… didn’t want to tell you here. I tried to engineer reasons for us to leave the base together, but something always came up and I felt like I was… running out of time…”_

__Shit _, this is embarrassing, falling apart about something weeks after the fact. He’d played it so cool at the time, even when -_

_\- why the hell is Snake digging all this shit up again, anyway? Was he taking advantage of Kaz’s inebriation to freaking interrogate him? Big Boss really was unbelievable._

_“I don’t understand. Why did you think it’d be any better if you told me somewhere else?”_

_“Because I didn’t want… if you decided that you were done with me. I didn’t want it to be here. Not at Mother Base. Not at my… home.”_

_Big Boss does something unexpected and slides an arm around Kaz’s shoulder to pull him close. It’s an awkward sort of half hug, mostly because it is carefully and extremely platonic. Brotherly, almost. It’s weird because while Kaz pulls this sort of move with Snake all the time, Snake tends to keep his hands to himself, except when they’re naked, in which case he's got a lot of uppity opinions about where his hands are allowed to be. It’s almost like a window into an alternate universe of what their relationship could have been like if Kaz hadn’t been so desperate to advance in the MSF that he’d do anything._

_“Kaz,” Snake says in his warmest voice, which also happens to be his most authoritative. “What did you think I was going to do? Throw you back to your old life after everything we’ve been through together? You don’t belong there anymore. And I know that you don’t have anything to go back to. You’re right - this is your home.”_

_“I didn’t think that you’d kick me out, Boss, I thought that you’d -”_ kill me _, Kaz doesn’t say, but the words hang in the air between them anyway. Kaz rears back and stares at Snake, a bit bewildered that he actually made it that far into saying it. Snake stares back, lips slightly pursed and expression as obnoxiously unreadable as ever. Kaz’s buzz is completely killed and he feels hyper-sober, hyper-alert - the way he used to feel back in his first few months in the MSF, when the memory of Snake’s arm around his throat was still fresh. Tightrope walking, cracking jokes with a maniac, never certain that he was standing on solid ground, or in the middle of a mine-field._

 _But he knows Snake now. And he_ really _shouldn’t be surprised that after two goddamn minutes of nail-biting silence, Snake starts fucking laughing. Deep, sincere belly-laughs that start in the gut and radiate all the way through his body before he gets them out. He laughs and he claps Kaz on the back so hard that Kaz can’t help but start laughing too, because if there wasn’t a safety-bar cutting between his fourth and fifth rib, he’d have gone toppling head first into the ocean._

_“Ahaha - yeah, it's a good joke, Boss!”_

_Snake finishes laughing and lights another cigar. The zippo takes about six cracks to get going, which is long enough for Kaz to also wear himself down. He flops out on his back so that he can stare at the sky. Even with all the light pollution of Mother Base, the stars are so bright and clear. He can see the outline of the galaxy painted lightly against the sky, constellations strung between the dark spaces like diamonds. God, he loves it out here._

_“Hey, Snake.”_

_“Kaz?”_

_“The sky’s really pretty. Come take a look at this.”_

_Snake lays back with a quiet grunt. He takes a drag off his cigar and the exhaled smoke makes a ring around the moon. Kaz feels uniquely at peace right now. Big Boss has a serious talent for drawing out powerful emotions in people, it’s crazy how just one word from Snake can slingshot him from one extreme to the other. But with the pleasant weight of cheap alcohol pooling at the center of his chest and the levity of Snake’s, if not forgiveness, continued_ acceptance _surrounding him… it’s a perfect moment, he thinks. Maybe he’s still drunker than he thought because he says that out loud._

_“This is perfect.”_

_“You feeling okay?”_

_“Yeah. Better than okay. I feel amazing.”_

_“That glad I didn’t throw you over the edge?”_

_“Yeah. That and a few other things. You know, despite everything I’ve never felt this… at peace. I’m really happy here.”_

_Snake says nothing, so Kaz keeps talking: “You know, Boss - English is such an inspecific language. In Japanese, there’s a ton of different words for where you live; it means different things depending on how you write it too. It can mean your place of dwelling, or the place where your parents live, or the place where you grew up. There’s a lot of nuance.”_

_“Missing the subtleties of your native tongue?”_

_“No, not exactly.” Kaz gets up and wraps his arms around his knees. “Home,” he says, grinning out at the expanse of the Caribbean Sea. “Just the one word. It’s clumsy, but it carries a lot of weight. In Japanese, words are very specific tools; you choose the right one for the job. But English words are kinda like a hammer, they smash through everything.”_ Just like you, Boss, _he thinks. “I like it.”_

_“Hnh. Don’t get too comfy, Kaz.” Snake is low rumble and a disc of red light in the pitch black night. “This kind of thing never goes smoothly for men like us. Wait until we see what the world’s got in store for us. It’s only been quiet a few months.”_

_“Yeah, I know Boss.” Kaz says, placating. Snake has been burnt before, again and again, but he’d see in good time; this place was worth fighting for, and this time he had Kaz with him. If they went down, at least they were going down together._ _“Hey,” Kaz rolls to his feet and dusts off his pants. “I’m going back to the party. You coming with me?” He offers Snake his hand and is pleasantly surprised when he takes it._

_“Yeah. Long as you promise to keep your pants on.”_

_Kaz can’t quite believe it - that he was able to budge the immovable boulder that was Big Boss’ stubbornness with such relative ease. It wasn’t long ago that this kind of thing would have been unthinkable, but the air between them has been different since the Peace Walker incident. Kaz’s job feels less like lion taming and more like a… well, a_ partnership _. Snake’s not giving him much, but he’s giving him something. He’s giving him just a little bit._

 __That’s fine _, Kaz thinks as he follows him down into the light. There have been so many times in his life where he’s had less than nothing._ I can live with just a little bit.

*

“Oi! _Kimpatsu_!”

Kazuhira winces as he looks up, rain getting in his eyes as he ducks out from beneath the alley’s tin outcropping. Eiji from the camera shop down the road is staring at him, arms crossed and face scowling, looking noble despite being soaked head to toe. Eiji is two years older than Kazuhira, but nearly a head shorter and likes to lord both things over him.

“What are you doing? Your mother came looking for you and collapsed in the street!”

Kazuhira scrambles to his feet, eyes wide. “ _What_!?”

“I just told you what! Are you chasing after American soldiers again? What’s wrong with you, when your mother is ill?”

“My mother is-” _stronger than you think_. “- fine.” Kazuhira knows that women who used to be prostitutes often wasted away from horrible diseases, the kind of things that could be easily treated with enough money and time, which they didn’t have. Not _his_ mother, though - she was strong, a real _“spitfire_ ”. Kazuhira can’t imagine her laid low for long.

Eiji tips his head and looks at the bruises forming on Kazuhira’s arms, looks at his face.

“Why are you bleeding?”

Kazuhira kicks at a puddle and shoves Eiji against a wall. “Mind your own business!” he snaps, wiping the blood off his face before running home.

His mother isn’t unconscious, but she’s slumped against the stoop of their shop, boneless with exhaustion and holding the side of her head. Kazuhira leans over her and hooks his hands under her arms to help her to her feet. 

When she looks at him, the first thing she asks is: “Kazuhira, did you get in a fight?”

“I… y-yeah…”

Instead of accepting his help, she pinches his ear. “What did I _tell_ you!? I need you to watch the shop, you can’t be running around spitting at everyone who looks at you funny!”

“ _Kaasan_ , I wasn’t-”

“ _No excuses_!”

Kazuhira rubs his ear, wincing as his palm rolls over the indent her nail made in the soft flesh. “Lets’... let’s go inside, _kaasan_. You should be out in the rain like this. I’ll close up shop and make you some tea, okay?”

She nods, running a hand through her hair. A bit of it comes out between her fingers. She stares at it, a complicated expression washing over her worn, tired features. “Put a bit of _sake_ the tea, Kazuhira,” she sighs.

“Yeah, I know...”

“And bring me my pipe.”

“Yeah, _kaasan_. I know.”

She pats his head. “Good boy.”

Kazuhira grabs one of the bootleg American records off the shelf at the shop and takes it upstairs. He puts it in the player delicately, taking care to be especially ginger when he sets the needle on the first track (because they still have to sell it, after all). The trembling strains of some haunting western love song fill every corner of their balmy, one-room apartment: soothing piano, warm hum of a choir, a man with a singing voice like melting sugar. His mother sings along from where she’s laying in bed, even though she doesn’t know a word of english.

 _She’ll get better soon_ , Kazuhira thinks as he lights her pipe and hands it to her. And then-

He catches his reflection in the window, distorted by the rain, as he goes to fetch the _sake_. He wonders momentarily what it must be like to be in a body that doesn’t stick out like his does, to not be constantly aware of what you look like and what other people can infer about your family from it. 

Everyone here - the Japanese _and_ the Americans, even his own mother sometimes: they all think that there’s something wrong with him. Most _konketsuji_ are ashamed of their pale skin, and their thin, greasy hair. Kazuhira’s never felt that way - his looks are the only thing he has to connect him to a father he’s never met. A father he’s sure will take him in.

 _These_ , his mother always says, running her hands over his eyes, his cheekbones, his fingers, _these are mine. But everything else, you got from him_.

 _Mom will get better_ , Kazuhira thinks. _And then I’m going to get out of here_. To America, where people won’t look at him funny when he walks down the street. Where no one will know what his mother had to do.

He thinks: _I don’t belong here._

*

_They peel out of the party together a quarter after three. Kaz managed to keep his pants on, but he_ did _get back into the tequila, which was a whole other thing. Mosquito - sniper, singer, Crimean War buff and one of their oldest and most loyal men - drags Kaz from out beneath the tarp and pushes him towards Big Boss. Kaz zig-zags, but doesn’t fall over because Snake steadies him by grabbing both his arms._

_“Hey Boss,” Mosquito says, “make sure the Commander gets to his quarters safely, huh?”_

_There’s something about the faith with which his men hand him off to Big Boss, and the quiet intimacy with which Snake leads him across the platform in full view of everyone, that Kaz thinks should probably bother him, but he’s too inebriated to have pride right now. He’s still thinking about what Snake said earlier:_

__Did you think I’d throw you back to your old life after everything we’ve been through together?

You don’t belong there anymore. And I know that you don’t have anything to go back to. 

You’re right - this is your home

 _If Big Boss was intent on keeping him, Kaz’ll just stay here forever. The mental loop that lead him to this conclusion was terrifying and circuitous, but now that he’s arrived, it’s actually a comfort, to get rid of that scratch in the back of the head telling him that he’s in the wrong place, the wrong time, that’s he’s with the wrong people, that he’s not_ quite _who he’s supposed to be but…. but … to have somewhere to be, somewhere to belong, he..._

 _High on the atmosphere, Kaz starts humming the last Elvis song he and Mosquito performed before he got too drunk to coherently strum chords. He sings, “-_ take my haaaaand, take my whooole life too-”

_He’s cut off by Big Boss sidling him up against the wall. “If you want me to take your whole life, Kaz,” he murmurs, whiskey-warm breath licking up Kaz’s face, “you’ll have to ask me in a nicer voice than your singing one.”_

_“I -” Kaz’s gaze flickers around, to make sure they’re alone. “I wasn’t talking to you Boss.”_

_“Really? There’s no one else around.”_

_Kaz laughs and winds his arms around Snake’s neck to pull him close. “God, it’s never enough for you, is it Snake? You just gotta take the whole nine yards, huh?”_

_“Mmmm,” Snake slips his fingers beneath the neck of Kaz’s shirt, drags a fingernail over the scar-tissue beneath his clavicle. The memory of that knife wound is like a promise. He tips his head to one side and grins lopsidedly. Kaz is too drunk to resist that look, not sober enough to pretend that he’s unaffected. No one’s around,_ no one’s _around - just the sky, the ocean and_ you _and_ him. _What’s wrong with saying it?_ This is where you belong, Kazuhira, this is who you are.

_“Fine,” Kaz whispers, “my whole life.”_

**1999**

“ _Shit-_ ”

David walks carefully, one foot in front of the other, weapon at the ready. Miller has disappeared into the forest carpet, but he’s leaving a trail of blood and hissed expletives behind him. David steps over his discarded sniper rifle first, his beret second. He sees his old mentor in profile, back against a tree-trunk, one knee pulled up to his bloody chest. The contrast between light and dark beneath the December moon is so extreme that it drains the colour from the landscape, makes everything black and white. Miller already looks like a ghost, illuminated by a blade of light that cleaves through the ruined jungle canopy in a clean, vicious slice.

As David rounds the tree, Miller dips a hand into his poncho and whips out his handgun. David slides into a defensive stance and snaps the muzzle of his own pistol between Miller’s eyes, finger light on the trigger. They stare each other down for a full minute before Miller relents and pulls back his gun, detaching the slide from the frame one-handed.

“Just kidding,” Miller shuts his eyes and holds out his arm, letting the weapon clatter to the ground in pieces. “You’re still too soft, David.”

“No,” David says, cautiously lowering his pistol, “I’m not. I just wanted to hear what you had to say for yourself. You really not gonna fight me?”

“No point. You got me in the lung -” Miller pulls a finger across his chest to demonstrate, “- right across. The bullet buried itself… in the mechanism… of my bionic arm. Lucky hit, kid. After everything I threw at you, you got me in one shot and made me an invalid again on top of it.”

“Not the glorious end you imagined, huh?”

Miller laughs. It turns into a cough, draws up a shock of thick, dark blood that dribbles down his chin. “David,” he says tiredly, wiping away the blood, “we live in an age in which there is no such thing as a heroic death.”

“Mishima again.”

“He was right about the allure of ideological purity. You feel it too, don’t you?”

David doesn’t answer. His head and his hands are saying different things and he doesn’t want to give Miller the chance to call him on it. Miller cracks a triumphant grin at his silence.

“So, you gonna join up, or what? The Boss could make better use of you than the US military ever did, I guarantee it.”

“I’m not a dog who’ll just sell myself to the highest bidder.”

Miller’s eyes fly open; David can see the expression beneath his sunglasses clearly in the moonlight. There’s a flash of insult, but it’s largely performative. “Don’t be so self-righteous, David. The only difference between what you do and what we do is a better severance package, and how well has that served you so far?”

“Better than Big Boss’ retirement plan served you.”

That diffuses Miller’s irritation. “Hah! You’re a funny man, you know that?” He pats down his front pocket, numbly. When his fingers stumble on the button, he looks up. “Hey, David... come down here.”

David doesn’t move a centimetre. Miller waves a hand over his immobile body. “Don’t worry, I’m bleeding to death, I’m not gonna do anything. I’ve just… got a pipe in my pocket. And some tobacco. I know you’ve always got a light, so help an old man out, would you?”

“I thought you didn’t smoke.”

“I don’t, but when you live with a smoker for twenty years, you get attached to the habit.”

The unguarded tenderness in Miller’s voice convinces Snake that he’s sincere. He gets down on his knees and takes the tobacco and pipe out; it’s an antique kiseru - an old japanese relic of the pre-war era, scratched and worn with age and frequent use. He stuffs the tobacco into the bowl, lights it, hands it to Miller, who sets the filter to his lips and takes a long, shuddering drag. On exhale, he catches David’s eyes and tips his chin, gesturing for him to come closer.

“Kid. Sit down and have a smoke with me.”

“Master…”

“C’mon - it won’t take long. I don’t have much time left. Think of it as my last request.”

\- and there’s really no way to refuse him after that. David slides his very last cigarette out of his pocket and lights it up, then he leans back against the tree - shoulder to shoulder with his dying mentor. They sit side by side in the moonlight for a few minutes, smoking in companionable silence and staring up at the stars through the fractured canopy.

“Despite everything you and Big Boss have done,” David says after a while, “the night sky here is beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Miller replies. “But I’ve seen better.”

“You know. You never actually told me your name.”

Miller is chewing on the end of his pipe. He breathes twin ribbons of smoke out his nose and sighs. “… Kazuhira.”

“ _Kazuhira_ ,” David repeats slowly. “Japanese for ‘peace’. Ironic name for a man who makes his living profiteering off of war.”

Miller snorts. “Well, my mother had no way to predict what I’d do with my life. And she was less cynical than I am, even though she had good reason to be. Her town was destroyed when the Americans firebombed Japan; her childhood home, her family, her neighbours... everything was burned to the ground. She was still a teenager, and unmarried, so you can imagine what kind of work she had to turn to.”

“Hnh. They call it the world’s oldest profession for a reason.”

“Yeah. And it killed her. But I don’t think she had any regrets. My father never came back for her, but he treated her kindly while they were together, even though he had no reason to do so except - I guess - to soothe his guilty conscience. He gave me his name, and he tried to give me America.”

David sucks in a mouthful of bitter smoke. “But you ended up here instead.”

“I told you before, David. Home is a state of mind: it can be a place or a time, it can be a feeling. It can be a single person. This is where I’m supposed to be.”

“So… do you have regrets, Kazuhira Miller?”

Miller’s eyelids flutter shut. He lets his pipe rest across his knee, sputtering smoke in lazy bursts as the bowl burns down to ash. “No one dies with a clear conscience,” he says simply. David nods. It’s true.

Something else about the word ‘peace’ from Miller’s mouth seems familiar for a reason he can’t quite place. “Before you left,” David says, suddenly remembering, “- that last night your were in the US… you said to me ‘I hope this victory brings you peace’. You were mocking me, even then.”

Miller’s mouth pinches into a strained smile.

“Ah, you have a good memory.”

“Yeah.”

“Heh… useful, but a bad quality in a soldier.”

“... yeah.” 

David stares at his half-smoked cigarette, grits his jaw. He contemplates it for a half beat - thinks hard about what this experience is going to feel like in the retrospect, when he’ll be remembering it like he remembers Outer Heaven: single frames, sharp flashes of pain and colour that linger behind the eyes even when you’re looking at something else. He came here to rid himself of moments like that, that’s what he told himself. _How could I have been so naive_?

He’s snapped out of his reverie by a hand fisted in the front of his shirt. Miller is leaning over him, blocking out the moonlight. David only has a moment to contemplate the expression on his face - disheveled, chipped, but still enigmatic - before Miller draws him near and presses their lips together. David’s so shocked that all he can do is endure it. It’s a sweet kiss: _slow_ and attentive. Miller cups his jaw - guiding the slick roll of their lips with a firm hand - and his thumb comes to rest in the hollow beneath David’s right eye, stroking over his cheekbone with an affection that feels habitual. His mouth is warm with tobacco spice and the remnants of smoke; it’s not until he pulls away that David tastes blood.

Miller lets out a shaky breath when they part. “There. That’s what you wanted, right?”

David stares at him, wide-eyed, mouth still slightly open. “No,” he says.

“David, I wasn’t mocking you. Call me a liar all you want, but I’ve never mocked you.” 

Miller lingers above David long enough to watch him tongue the blood from lip and swallow it down, his eyes following the motion of David’s jugular as he does it. When the moment’s passed, his body slumps against the tree, buoyed by the deadweight of his prosthetic. He waves dismissively, tone suddenly sharp. “Hn. Well, get on with it then. It’s getting late and the Boss is expecting you.”

David blinks. “... what. You aren’t going to convince me to turn back? To join him?”

“No. I’m not. You can do what you want.”

“What I want,” David says slowly, uncertainly, “is to finish my mission.”

“Then do that.”

“That means I’m going to take him out. You want that?”

Miller’s mask slips and his voice gets rough. Only now does David notice that his arm is shaking, eyes darting, there’s sweat beading on his chin from the effort it’s taking to stay conscious. “If I’m dead…” he growls, voice trembling. “There’s only one thing left I care about. The Boss… he made me a promise, and the kind of guy he is, he needs some help keeping it.”

David tosses out his cigarette butt and gets to his feet. “You’re telling me to kill him?” he wonders, skeptical. “What happened to your big speech about love and loyalty?”

“Heh… no one’s more loyal to him than me. That’s why I’m not going to hell alone. David - grant me this. Make sure we go together… make sure we both get what we deserve. It’s all I want.”

There’s a unfathomable pit of ugly history and implication beneath those words. David’s only begun to dig up the twisted roots of Big Boss’ relationships, the way those roots ensnared men in unbreakable lashes, pulling them tighter the harder they tore against it. When Fox spoke of him there was worship and fear; with Miller, his words burned with a passion that was equal measures love and hate. David has brushed up against that obsession himself, can see where it comes from, but looking at it lighting up the whites of someone else’s eyes is sobering. Whatever Master Miller’s relationship with Big Boss really was, it doesn’t bear any more thinking about. David’s done trying to understand it. But he can do this for Miller, this one last favour.

“Sorry, Master,” he says sincerely, hand on his gun holster, “but I’m gonna send you there first.”

Miller nods and makes a thin, watery noise in the back of his throat. “Of... course…” he breathes, “it’d be… cruel to let me bleed out. And you’re not a cruel man.”

David cocks his gun, offs the safety. That’s true - this is an act of mercy, just like when he put a bullet through DD’s head out in the Kaniksu wilderness. Telling himself that steadies his arms, puts the air back in his lungs: it’s a mission, a task, the very last assignment Master Miller has given to Solid Snake. He’s back on track now. Whatever happens, he either lives or dies, but he knows what he has to do. With that purpose at his back, he can face Big Boss again. He can do what needs to be done.

Miller raises his hand to block out the right side of David’s face. “You’re not cruel, but… you look so much like him. It’s funny.” David sets the muzzle of his pistol against the other lens of Miller’s sunglasses. Miller’s smile is almost beatific. He says: “do it. Prove you’re twice the man he is and do the one thing he never could.” His eyes fall shut and he whispers: “put me out of my fucking misery.”

Snake does as he’s told.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**1973**

Kaz rolls onto his side and spits out a mouthful of dirt and blood. There’s something solid and cracked rattling around the side of his mouth. He’s worried that Snake punched him hard enough to dislodge a tooth, but when he coughs it up, it’s just a rock.

“ _Shit,_ ” he breathes. Snake grabs the front of his shirt and begins yanking him along. Kaz rolls against him, trying to elbow free, but he’s bruised and spent - and still _pretty fucking angry_. After everything that just happened, he can’t believe Snake’s still trying to fucking _manhandle_ him.

“Jesus Christ, Boss! Ease the fuck up _already_ , would you!?”

Snake doesn’t let go. “I’m just -” he sets his hands on Kaz’s shoulders and slides him around forcefully until he’s back against the wheel of their truck. Then Snake hands him his aviators. They’re covered in mud, but not cracked. Kaz takes them and pulls one leg up so that he can hang them over his knee, letting the pounding torrent of the rainstorm wash them clean.

Snake grunts and slumps down beside him so that they’re shoulder to shoulder against the truck. It’s raining too hard for him to light a cigar, so he fiddles with his pockets before setting his hands awkwardly in his lap. Neither of them say anything for a while. Kaz has no idea what the Boss is so pensive about; what Kaz is trying to do is figure out if what they just did counts as sex or not. They definitely both came ( _in their pants, like fucking teenagers_ ) and Kaz is sporting a few incredibly nasty bite marks along his neck, collarbone and _forearm_ that in less insane circumstances, he might call _hickies_.

He wasn’t expecting this outcome. He wasn’t sure, exactly, what results trying to touch Big Boss’ dick in the middle of an argument would yield, but after eight hours of tense, terrifying silence it was like a frigging _dam_ breaking to just throw himself on top of Snake and claw and roll and kick at him like they were kids. Like they were _animals_. Kaz wasn’t even thinking when Snake slammed him against the ground and grabbed his neck - he was moving on pure primal instinct, digging his nails into Big Boss’ face, rutting against him like a dog in heat as the air drained from his lungs -

 _\- fuck_.

“Boss -”

“Kaz. About what happened in Medellín...”

“ _That’s_ what you want to talk about?” Kaz laughs humorlessly. 

Snake continues, because of course he does: “I understand that you’re angry about the deal…”

For some reason, that sets Kaz off again. His anger keeps boiling over, keeps seeping out in hot bursts, like when you peel a scab off too soon and it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds, no matter how much pressure you put on it. He snaps, glaring at Snake with his eyes blazing, muscles all tensed for another round of rolling around in the mud. 

“ _Angry about the deal_!? You’re goddamn _right_ I’m _angry_ about the deal! This was our big break - we could have been _set_! Two days driving through the _fucking rain_ and you didn’t even let him finish the pitch! Because of what? Your _pride_!?”

Big Boss stares back, total calm. “Am I really the one whose pride is injured right now, Kaz?”

“ _Fuck_ you. You embarrassed me, Snake! You… dressed me down like a kid right in front of him. That guy knows my name. You don’t think he’ll talk? This’ll get around, and then who’ll want to do business with us!?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Snake says. “Any friend of his isn’t the kind of man I’ll sell our services to.”

Kaz slices his arm through the air. He’s not sure what he wants to do - if he’s trying to grab Snake or hit him, but it doesn’t matter: Snake catches his wrist and begins bending his arm, enough that the pressure on Kaz’s radius bone becomes almost unbearable. Kaz sucks in a ragged breath and grits his teeth; snapping his arm isn’t where he’d thought it’d begin, but it’s finally happening - Big Boss is finally going to kill him, to put him out of his fucking misery. That’s fine. The way Kaz is feeling right now, he’s pretty sure he has a good chance of taking the bastard with him.

Whatever blow he’s expecting doesn’t come. Big Boss holds his arm firm and keeps _looking_ at him. “Kaz, if you want to help me build this organization, you need to learn how to pick your battles. You need to learn to separate your emotions from your work.”

 _Oh, like_ you _do, Boss_? Kaz doesn’t say out loud. The way his lip curls communicates the sentiment all the same, however, and he tries to wrench his wrist from Snake’s grasp. Snake tightens his grip and slowly begins to turn Kaz’s arm in a way that sends a crippling spike of pain up the length of it.

“Kaz,” Big Boss’ voice has the same quality as the distant rumble of thunder. “ _Don’t push it_.”

Kaz, very slowly, begins to pull his arm back, to twist against Snake’s steel grasp, to _push_ it. Snake keeps bending his arm, centimetre by centimetre, tightening his grip each time Kaz tries to resist, until Kaz’s fingers are going blue and numb from blood loss. The pain travels in bright, pin sharp rivers all the way to his shoulder. It spikes up to his jawline and through the cartilage of his ribcage, so intense that he has to close his eyes against it and bite the inside of his mouth until he draws blood. He turns his face towards the rain and focuses on the feeling of the storm battering his face, on the distant sounds of animals scurrying from cover to cover, the rain churning up the river bed. But he doesn’t yield and, eventually, Snake lets go.

When Kaz blinks his eyes open, Snake is staring at him intently. His gaze is analytical, deconstructive; he’s staring at Kaz with _predatory_ fascination, the way a wolf picks out a wounded animal. Kaz’s breath gets caught in his throat again - okay, so maybe he _was_ going to die today - but after a moment, Snake grins. _What_?

Kaz watches Snake stand up without a word. His eyes follow Snake’s wide shoulders all the way around the back of the truck as his heart punches his ribs, beating so fast that it feels like something’s going to snap in there.

 _Oh_ , Kaz thinks. _He liked that. He likes it when I push him_.

The realization is like a gut punch, a terrifying rush of power, but it pales in comparison to the mix of dread and excitement that he feels when he touches two fingers to the ugly mark Snake’s teeth left on his neck. _This is going to happen again_.

Big Boss’ voice booms from behind the truck. “Hey, get back here!”

Kaz scrambles and almost slips in the mud, he’s so eager to obey. Snake’s leant against the flat-bed, trying to dislodge the wheels from the riverbank. He pats the trunk with three resounding, hollow thuds and says: “C’mon, let’s go home.”

“Home -” Kaz laughs. “You mean that shithole in the mud that the men are watching for us?”

“Home isn’t a place, Kaz. Home is just where you go back to.”

Kaz rolls his eyes. “Nice philosophy, Boss. Who are you trying to impress? I already know you’re a warrior, not a poet.”

“Stop being a smartass and help me push the truck.”

Kaz braces up against the other side of the trunk and begins to push. “Shit, Snake,” he gasps, mouth filling with rain everytime he opens it, “- after all that? I’m gonna die out here, y’know.”

Snake hums, unsympathetic. “I’ll be sure to pick up your bones when we’re done, then.”

The truck begins to lift out of the ditch an inch at a time, the long, low whine of metal flexing against itself drowning out the sound of the rain. Kaz can’t hold it, his arm is still numb and trembling from earlier. He collapses, gasping for breath, and the truck rocks back, knocking both him and Snake flat on their asses in the mud. Their eyes meet, and they burst out laughing.

“Is that a promise, Boss?”

“Yeah, Kaz, it is.”

“Well, in that case, I guess it’s not so bad.”

 

 

 


	12. BONUS DISC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a fun ride as a writer and I’m genuinely glad so many people accompanied me on it. Thank you for all the support, the art, the amazing essay-length reviews… I’m almost as proud of this fic as I am of my original work and a huge part of that has been the overwhelmingly kind and enthusiastic reception from the fandom. I almost didn’t write this fic, but now that it’s over, I’m very, very glad I did.
> 
> If you wanna share it on tumblr, here's a link to [my very first update](http://cephiedvariable.tumblr.com/post/134364839537/oh-good-more-fanfic), and [my very last](http://cephiedvariable.tumblr.com/post/142320775297/ill-pick-up-your-bones-when-im-done-the-end).

  
^

**1.** Soundtrack  
 **2.** Fanart  
 **3.** References/“Bibliography”  
 **4.** 4koma (special thanks to [PlayerProphet](http://playerprophet.tumblr.com))  
 **5.** “Hell Master” Boss Fight Guide  
 **6.** Cut Content

  


  
[IPUYB: The Lost Tapes](https://8tracks.com/cephied_variable/ipuyb-the-lost-tapes) by Cephied Variable

  
[ZL 1999](https://8tracks.com/starlock/zl-1999) by Starlock

  
[I'll Pick Up Your Bones FST](https://8tracks.com/octopizzy/i-ll-pick-up-your-bones-when-i-m-done) by Octopizzy

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The lovely and talented [AVoresmith](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AVoresmith/pseuds/AVoresmith) is working on an AU of IPUYB called: [And Carry Them to Our Grave](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9117499/chapters/20721259).  


[awkward dinner date](http://warmsierramist.tumblr.com/post/138202476557/just-punch-through-his-fucking-headjpg-this-is-a) by warmsierramist  
[zanzibar master miller](http://14066.tumblr.com/post/138057735041/some-zlkaz-inspired-by-cephiedvariable-s) by 14066 (turretsyndrome)  
[kaz and david from chapter 1](http://theyoungdoyley.tumblr.com/post/136396907325) by theyoungdoyley  
['I'll Pick Up Your Bones...' Greatest Hits Edition](http://warmsierramist.tumblr.com/post/138584389042/guess-who-loves-dying-and-being-dead) also by warmsierramist  
["I always thought you looked most right in the middle of a jungle..."](http://cephiedvariable.tumblr.com/post/138765341342/adelon-not-that-im-dwelling-on-the-past-but) by adelon  
[Two scenes from Chapter Nine](http://teniles.tumblr.com/post/140245360205/fromthe-fic) by tenilles  
["Despite everything, it's a beautiful sky."](http://marmod.tumblr.com/post/142540940874/david-slides-his-very-last-cigarette-out-of-his) by marmod  
[1999](http://14066.tumblr.com/post/143456584971/1999) by 14066 (turretsyndrome)  
[ZL Kaz](https://twitter.com/_starlock/status/734574601838206976) by Starlock  
[Another Zanzibar Land Miller](http://starlock.tumblr.com/post/145036032447/metal-gears-from-twitter-no1-girl-1984-two-man) by Starlock (at the bottom :3c)  
["A blood soaked jungle like this is the last place..."](http://starlock.tumblr.com/post/145642246202/ill-pick-up-your-bones-when-im-done) by Starlock  
[Zanzibar Land 1999 - The Movie Poster](http://starlock.tumblr.com/post/146817228627/zanzibar-land-1999-for-ill-pick-up-your-bones) by Starlock  
[Rebloggable versions of the 4koma](https://playerprophet.tumblr.com/post/146870011606/i-just-realized-i-never-posted-the-comics-i-did) by Player Prophet  
[Boss fight Kaz (with additional Quiets from her own fic)](http://14180.work/post/155591936167/ricochet-quiets-zl-kaz) by Starlock  
[Sketch dump with a scene from Chapter 2 at the bottom](http://14180.work/post/153664877842/the-most-recent-round-of-metal-gear-sometimes) by Starlock  
[1957/1999](https://qixzel.tumblr.com/post/168015835746/ill-pick-up-your-bones-when-im-done-by) by Qixzel  
["Miller lights his cigarette with surprising ease - as if he’s done it a hundred times..."](http://cephiedvariable.tumblr.com/post/172989297032/strangestquiet-miller-lights-his-cigarette) by [strangestquiet](http://strangestquiet.tumblr.com)

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**Chapter One**

**1.** _“In a real dark night of the soul, it’s always 3am,” Solid Snake thinks as he chips the black mud from his boots._  
\- [F. Scott Fitzgerald](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/647821-in-a-real-dark-night-of-the-soul-it-is), ‘The Crack Up’

 **2.** _David isn’t a religious man, but the absolution St. John of the Cross finds in oblivion is a universal desire._ ‘cesó todo y dejéme, dejando mi cuidado...’ - _the freedom found in God is similar to the freedom a soldier finds in following orders. Purify the senses and give yourself over to the mission. Everything else will come naturally. The man who taught him that, he -_  
_\- a voice drifts through the mist to answer the hanging couplet of his verse. Snake’s nerves are so shot that at first he thinks he’s hallucinating. “- entre las azucenas olvidado.” my cares… forgotten among the lilies._  
\- [The Dark Night of the Soul/La Noche Oscura](http://users.ipfw.edu/jehle/poesia/nocheosc.htm), San Juan de la Cruz

 **3.** _Miller, of course, was a consummate professional and did not let that fondness affect how hard he came down in the field, but David is acutely aware of the fact that he is the only first year FOXHOUND recruit with the Master's dog eared copy of Spring Snow sitting at the bottom of his locker._  
\- [Spring Snow](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spring_Snow) is the first novel of Yukio Mishima’s [Sea of Fertility Tetralogy](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sea_of_Fertility), the last four books that he wrote before committing suicide. This series comes up several times in the fic. The plot of these novels concerns a man who is convinced that he keeps meeting the reincarnation of a friend of his who died before his time. The beauty presented in the series’ first book slowly decays as the protagonist is revealed to be delusional, clinging to a past that is long dead.

 **4.** _“If you wear a mask, your face will grow to fit it, Master Miller.”_  
_“Have you even read Orwell’s essays?”_  
\- [Shooting an Elephant](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shooting_an_Elephant), George Orwell

**Chapter Two**

**1.** _“What do you want?” I asked._  
_“To be with you in hell,” he said._  
_I laughed. “It’s plain you mean_  
_to have us both destroyed.”_  
\- [The Guest](http://www.nybooks.com/articles/1973/03/22/the-guest/), Anna Akhmatova  
_‘Oh, I see: his game is that he knows_  
intimately, ardently,  
there’s nothing from me he wants,  
I have nothing to refuse.’

 **2.** _“Coyote - who thinks himself clever - sets off into the wilderness to slay a giant that he has heard of. In his arrogance, he walked straight into the giant’s mouth thinking that it was a cave. In that cave, he met many captives of the giant’s hunger and because he used his stick to cut flesh from the sides of the giant’s throat, he thought himself a hero.”_  
\- [Coyote Kills a Giant](http://www.indigenouspeople.net/coyokill.htm), trad. Navajo Myth. Code Talker’s talking out his ass here since Coyote is far more successful than Kaz in his endeavours here.

**Chapter Four**

**1.** _Snake, naturally, is enjoying himself. His eyes had lit up when Civet de Chauve Souris turned out to be exactly what it said on the tin. He’s munching contentedly on one of the spiced bat wings now…_  
\- [“Bat Curry”](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuisine_of_Seychelles). What it says on the tin.

 **2.** _“These people are awfully calm considering the city just survived an attempted coup,” Snake says in Spanish._  
_‘Calm’ isn’t how Kaz would describe the atmosphere. Desperate, maybe. Determined to be jovial. The banquet room is full of chatty diners dressed in neon and floral prints, all of them drunk on sambuca and palm wine._  
\- [There were several coups against France-Albert René in the 80’s](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Flowers_are_Blooming).

 **3.** _“Adoration is a latin loanword. We’ve softened it with mundane associations, but in its original context, it means admiration and reverence. In Rome, a devotee to an adored figure could not even look at the object of their affection.”_  
\- [Adoration](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adoration), to give _homage_ or to _worship_ something or someone.

**Chapter Five**

**1.** _David has always felt more human around dogs than people. He used to help out at a rescue shelter when he lived with the Reeses in Grant’s Pass. “The best way to keep you out of juvie,” his foster mother said._  
\- Since Solid Snake has no canonical last name, I have him using a foster one for legal purposes. I chose 'Reese' after Kyle Reese, from the first Terminator film, who's actor - Micheal Biehn - was the inspiration for Snake's face on the very first Metal Gear's box art. [[Kyle Reese](http://img03.deviantart.net/77ed/i/2015/192/4/6/terminator__1984___kyle_reese_by_iproberserker-d90v3xz.jpg)] [[MG1 Box Art](http://static.giantbomb.com/uploads/original/9/93770/2362059-nes_metalgear.jpg)]

 **2.** _“Do you know what a Tiger Cage is?”_  
_“Yeah. Kind of torture device used in Vietnam POW camps, right?”_  
_“Sort of. More like a trash can, where they put prisoners when they were done with them."_  
\- [Tiger Cages](http://comps.canstockphoto.com/can-stock-photo_csp16163529.jpg). Gray Fox being half-Vietnamese and having his ears and nose mutilated/cut off is adapted from his MG2/MGS1 backstory. I shifted the timeline back a few years to accommodate new canon presented in PW & TPP, but for the most part I just went with what he said in the original MG2 script rather than Portable Ops.

 **3.** _The weekend before, he’d taken a bus out beyond the city limits, right to the end of the line, and went walking in Kaniksu with nothing but two packs of smokes and a knife. He’d hiked up nearly the entire length of the Kootenai River Valley…_  
\- [Kaniksu National Forest](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kaniksu_National_Forest), in Washington State.

 **4.** _He stared at the stars and thought about how Nanabozho went north forever, and considered not going back himself. He only turned around when he realized that he’d finished his last cigarette._  
\- [ Nanabozho](http://www.native-languages.org/nanabozho.htm) is an important figure in Algonquin and Ojibwa myth. In some mythic traditions, he is the God who created the Northern Lights. Snake also makes a speech about Nanabozho at the end of PlayerProphet and I’s doujinshi, [The Last Nine Years](http://playerprophet.storenvy.com/products/15059895-the-last-nine-years-metal-gear-solid-doujinshi), which is why I referenced him here as well ;)

 **5.** _He felt like he was seeing the whole **world in a grain of sand, eternity in an hour**. At eighteen, David had believed such worldliness to be the path to inner peace. He was a lot more worldly now, but he didn’t feel any wiser, or any happier._  
\- [Auguries of Innocence](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172906), William Blake.

 **6.** _He goes to his room and returns with a faded, but otherwise well-maintained, copy of Yukio Mishima’s Decay of the Angel. Miller adjusts his aviators before taking the book back._  
\- [the last book](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Decay_of_the_Angel) in Mishima’s ‘Sea of Fertility’.

 **7.** _“You know… I’m not sure that I -” he turns his mug around as he tries to formulate a thought to derail any brewing conversations about Big Boss. “- understood all of the cultural subtleties. I get Mishima’s point - the past is more beautiful the further away you are from it. Clinging to it is a delusion that ‘decays’ the present. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that Mishima himself was endorsing the delusion.”_  
\- Mishima had a complicated relationship with nationalism, living a very erudite, modern, western life himself as a celebrity while obsessing over the purity and glory of Japan’s past. [He eventually committed suicide after attempting (probably knowing that he would fail) to incite a coup](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yukio_Mishima#Coup_attempt_and_ritual_suicide). Kaz mentions in Peace Walker that witnessing Mishima’s coup/suicide was what made him finally decide to leave Japan for good. While I understand that it might be giving Kojima too much credit, I thought this was pretty interesting considering the conflict between East/West at the core of Kaz’s character (and I don’t think this is an accident, the same way Strangelove’s influential historical figure is Alan Turing). I tried to tie Kaz thematically to Mishima in this fic the same way Big Boss is tied to Che Guevara in PW. 

**8.** _“Well, in Japan... when the war was over, they were forced to adapt to survive. Some level of conscious Westernization had been a policy since before the Meiji Restoration…”_  
\- [The Meiji Period](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meiji_period) is the name given to the historical period in which Japan engaged in conscious, aggressive modernization at the end of the 19th century, in response to American and European pressure to end their isolation and participate in international trade.

 **9.** _“You said that you read Decay of the Angel in 1972. The copy you leant me is a first edition english translation - and it’s from ‘74. You’re meticulous enough that I believe you know more than two languages, but being fluent enough in the Japanese alphabet to read a book that dense in your twenties seems like a tall order for someone who didn’t grow up reading it.”_  
\- [Decay of the Angel](http://www.bookfever.com/book_listing/Mishima_Yukio_1925_1970_THE_DECAY_OF_THE_ANGEL_The_Sea_of_Fertility_a_Cycle_of_Four_Novels_book_58576.html), first English ed. Translated by Edward G. Seidensticker

**Chapter Six**

**1.** _“Currently, however, your passport reads Benedict Miller.” She tips her head to one side and makes a cute show of recalling information that she clearly has memorized. “Benedict Miller, however, was born in 1941, in Napa, California.”_  
\- There’s nothing in the games to support this, but I have this head-canon that Kaz picked up the name ‘Benedict Miller’ from his dead half-brother. EVA’s calling him on it.

**Chapter Seven**

**1.** _“Perfect purity is possible if you turn your life into a line of poetry written with a splash of blood.”_  
\- [Runaway Horses](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/148717-perfect-purity-is-possible-if-you-turn-your-life-into), Yukio Mishima. The second book of the ‘Sea of Fertility’ trilogy in which the protagonist Honda becomes embroiled in the court case of a young, passionate revolutionary whose eventual suicide strangely mirrors Mishima’s own eventual demise.

 **2.** _“When I look at you, I can see that you are surrounded by light*-”_  
[*speaker uses a japanese idiom here that is difficult to translate literally. the idea is to achieve enlightenment and see the full truth of something “all of a sudden”.]  
\- 豁然大悟, which is a Japanese [Yojijukugo](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yojijukugo) (Four-Character Idiomatic Compound) that means _“suddenly seeing the light; suddenly realizing what something is about; achieving full enlightenment all of a sudden”_ (at least according [to this website](http://home.earthlink.net/~4jword/index3.htm)).

 **3.** _“In the morning, the squad - what’s left of the [english] MSF [/english] - comes to find me. My body is entwined with your skeleton*.”_  
[*speaker is making reference to a famous kaidan about the consequences of having a relationship with a ghost.]  
\- There’s a few of these, here’s a [famous one](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Botan_D%C5%8Dr%C5%8D).

 **4.** _“Opposite of ‘fast’, actually. We’re digging in at the mountain base long-term. I left the Operation in good hands. Remember that ex-Spetsnaz who defected to us in November?”_  
_Kaz has met him once or twice. Big Russian guy, kinda anti-social. “The grenadier?”_  
\- The guy they’re talking about here is the Metal Gear 2 boss, [Red Blaster.](http://metalgear.wikia.com/wiki/Red_Blaster)

 **5.** _“I arranged for the Chechen rebels to make a trade route with the Vor v Zakone through our territory like they wanted,” he says. “We’ll get a 10% profit cut from the Vor v and the Chechens are gonna pay us in big guns - they’re only looking for concealable weapons at the moment, so any heavy artillery that passes through belongs to us.”_  
\- [Chechnya was at war with Russia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/First_Chechen_War) in 1997. Kaz has made a deal with the [Russian mafia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thief_in_law) here, who were particularly powerful during the 1990s after the fall of the Soviet Union.

 **6.** _He takes a deep breath and eases into position to sit seiza. He can feel a violent flush heating his face as he slowly lowers himself into a seated saikeirei bow. His form is clumsy - for one thing, he only has one arm, for another thing, he hasn’t done this since he was sixteen years old. Lessons drilled in at a young age last a lifetime. His forehead doesn’t quite hit the floor, but it’s close enough that he can feel the chill stored in the hewn stone radiating against his skin. He counts the seconds out between breaths - one, two, three, four - and manages to resist glancing at Snake as he pulls himself to his knees again. He stares carefully and politely at the wall, like the nice little Japanese boy he never quite managed to be._  
\- [Sitting seiza](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seiza) / [Saikeirei Bow](https://www.tofugu.com/japan/bowing-in-japan/). The seated saikeirei bow Kaz is using in this scene is somewhat old fashioned for obvious reasons.

**Chapter Eight**

**1.** _Half-heartedly enough that if she’s in the bathroom or on the balcony, he can totally ditch this whole stupid idea and head back to his own hovel of a hostel and… and drink all this brandy myself I guess, Kaz thinks to himself sardonically, holding up the bottle of Cardenal Mendoza - aged fifteen years - he’d bought down the street._  
\- [Fancy mid-tier Spanish brandy](https://www.thewhiskyexchange.com/p/996/cardenal-mendoza-brandy-solera-gran-reserva). I’ve never had it, but it sounds good.

 **2.** _“What are you,” she enunciates each word carefully, “doing in Spain at all, Monsieur Miller?”_  
_Kaz isn’t prepared for the question. He says, unconvincingly: “Uh, y’know, just… passing through. Admiring the arts.”_  
_“You are on your way to Basque, oui?”_  
_He looks away, to hide his eyes from her. “That obvious?”_  
\- [Basque had been seeking independence](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basque_conflict) for over twenty years at this point.

 **3.** _“I lied to her once and told her that I had quite enjoyed Monsieur Bergman’s film Persona, although I had it all twisted around. I thought that she was talking about the actress Ingrid Bergman and was quite confused.”_  
\- [Persona](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0060827/) is a great film. It also has pretty thick homoerotic tension between the two female leads, which might explain Strangelove's interest in it. ;) Apparently it’s [on youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ySa4fK9SqII).

 **4.** _“The young wife in the film… I cannot remember the quote exactly, but she said something to the effect of: ‘if you live with someone, will you eventually become like them? Because you love them, you try to think like them and to see like them and so it will change you.’ She wonders if... she not tried so hard to see what he saw, if she could have protected him from it.”_  
\- [Hour of the Wolf](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0063759/). Here’s the full quote that Cécile is misremembering: _"Is it true that a woman who lives a long time with a man eventually winds up being like that man? I mean, she loves him, and tries to think like him, and see like him? They say it can change a person. I mean to say, if I had loved him much less, and not bothered so of everything about him, could I have protected him better?"_ I honestly could have drawn even more parallels with this movie (there’s even a Strangelove figure in it!), but I was hitting the pretension ceiling on this chapter.

 **5.** _He glances down and sees the intruder laid out beneath him. The camouflage short-circuited at some point during the beating. It’s a man - southeast asian, about fourty… maybe. It’s hard to tell - his face is wrecked: nose caved in, both eyes hidden under swollen skin._  
\- Kaz accidentally beat the shit out of future Metal Gear 2 boss [”Night Fright](http://metalgear.wikia.com/wiki/Night_Fright).

 **6.** _“If you absolutely need to use your skills, don’t do Black Ops. Don’t do private military. Go solo, work for the little people. Put personal ads out in, I don’t know, that American Ronin magazine."_  
\- _American Ronin_ magazine is a reference to the Season 3 episode of the X-Files, ['Pusher'](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pusher_\(The_X-Files\)). It's a parody of ['Soldier of Fortune'](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soldier_of_Fortune_\(magazine\)) magazine.

**Chapter Nine**

**1.** _Snake pulls back for a moment and Kaz winces, certain that he’s about to get a thorough beating for his trouble. Instead, Snake slowly lowers his body and rests his forehead on his shoulder. He’s breathing heavily, and not just from the exertion. Kaz cautiously raises one of his hands and sets a flat palm over the curve of Snake’s shoulder. The man is shaking like a leaf._  
_… he looks utterly lost, almost childlike. Kaz’s heart clenches up when he looks at him - teeth bared, but terror in his eye. His hands are trembling where they’re fisted in the fabric of Kaz’s shirt…_  
\- I promise this is the most pretentious thing I’ve ever done in a fanfic (in my LIFE), but just because I could, elements of this scene very (VERY) loosely mirrors the elements of the scene in Mishima’s [Confessions of a Mask](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Confessions_of_a_Mask) in which the narrator (during childhood) realizes he’s in love with his classmate who he idolizes after witnessing a moment of weakness and loneliness.

 **2.** _David is obviously treading water in the letter. He dedicates most of the first and second page to a clipped, but nonetheless rambling, discussion of Konrad Lorenz’s On Aggression and associated criticism._  
\- [This book](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/On_Aggression).

 **3.** _Only one man alive; this bunch had been willful, patriotic. Kaz glances at the corpses in the cells as he breezes by. All young men from the CIS, not a single one older than twenty-five and all from different ethnicities._  
\- I mention the CIS a few times in this fic. [Here’s what it is](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commonwealth_of_Independent_States).

 **4.** _Tselinoyarsk is a wonder of nature. An untouched paradise thriving against all odds at the chaotic heart of Eurasia. This is where Snake earned the title ‘Big Boss’. This is where his youth ended, where he left behind the name ‘Jack’, where he died once and was reborn something a little less and a little more human._  
\- The idea that Zanzibar Land [is in Tselinoyarsk](http://metalgear.wikia.com/wiki/Zanzibar_Land#Unconfirmed_history) is from the non-canonical (but Kojima endorsed) Metal Gear Solid 4 novelization. The idea was just so fucking high tier cyclical Big Boss insanity that I couldn’t help but use it.

**5.** _They stop along the edge of a river. It’s beautiful, peaceful - far enough away from Command that you wouldn’t know you were standing in the middle of a highly militarized mercenary nation. The only sound for miles is the hum of mosquitoes and the whistling of birds flitting between the trees. The sun has dipped down towards the horizon, casting the landscape in red and orange light and making long shadows of the trees. Kaz can hear the faint roar of a waterfall in the distance._  
\- If you thought I was trying to imply that this is the same riverbed that Naked Snake woke up on after his encounter with the Sorrow (ie: the place where the Joy killed the Sorrow :3c) ... you're exactly right, I am totally shameless enough to make that implication.

**6.** _‘Big Boss looks a lot like some famous painting he saw once, can’t remember the name, can’t remember when he saw it… the one where Saturn is eating his own kid. Wide eyed, bloody-mouthed - as if the violence is being committed in some sort of primal innocence outside and above morality.’_  
\- [Saturn Devouring His Son](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saturn_Devouring_His_Son), by Francisco Goya. Apparently: "there is evidence that the picture may have originally portrayed the titan with a partially erect penis", and I think that's beautiful. ;)

**Chapter Ten**

**1.** _"He came and saved us... he forgave us for what we'd done. He gave us a new life, a new home. A new... family..."_  
\- I fudged most of the MG1/MG2 dialogue in this fic, but Kyle Schneider’s dying words are almost verbatim what they are in the game.

 **2.** _“A coffee,” Miller clarifies. “You left a few interesting notes in the margins of my copy of ‘Darkness at Noon’. I thought I’d pick your brain directly about this one.”_  
\- [Darkness at Noon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darkness_at_Noon) by Arthur Koestler, a novel about the show trials during Stalin’s great purge.

 **3.** _“Hmm, interesting,” he says, and then he recites: “ ‘He grew indifferent to the lure of exotic lands. He found himself in the strange predicament all sailors share: essentially he belonged neither to the land nor to the sea’.”_  
_David reads the rest: “ ‘Possible a man who hates the land should dwell on shore forever’."_  
\- [The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With The Sea](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sailor_Who_Fell_from_Grace_with_the_Sea), Yukio Mishima. I chose this as Kaz and David’s first manipulation-book-club discussion because a) it’s really, _obsessively_ homoerotic, b) this quote right here carries a lot of thematic weight for David’s arc in this fic.

 **4.** _Snake has been in Zanzibar Land for six hours and has only killed five people. Kyle Schneider was unavoidable. **The three men flying the HIND** … that had been necessary._  
\- For those who missed it the first time, that was Pequod. ;)

 **5.** _"Che Guevara said: ‘one should harden without ever losing tenderness’. If people can’t fall in love even under bad circumstances, there’s no point to any of this. If we let go of the things that matter, we really are just animals.”_  
\- It’s “one _MUST_ harden”, but Snake’s under pressure. I couldn’t in good conscious let this entire fic go without at least ONE Che quote.

 **6.** _MILLER: In Italy there’s a beautiful bridge that crosses over the Rio di Palazzo. They call it ‘Ponte dei sospiri’ - the Bridge of Sighs. According to local legend, if a couple kisses beneath the bridge, they will be granted eternal love._  
\- It IS [really pretty](http://www.tanogabo.it/Sfondi/Venezia/pontedeisospirivenezia.jpg) for what it is.

 **7.** _SNAKE: The studies that proposed the Alpha Wolf theory were eventually found fraudulent. Rudolph Schenkel reached his conclusions by putting wolves from different packs into enclosed, unnatural habitats, forcing them to fight over limited resources._  
_SNAKE: Real wolf packs are families. The strong take point and head up the rear, protecting the young, the old and the infirm._  
\- [Fun article](http://io9.gizmodo.com/why-everything-you-know-about-wolf-packs-is-wrong-502754629) about Schenkel’s research.

 **8.** _SNAKE: It’s a Japanese myth, right? About the fisherman who saves a turtle?_  
\- The myth of [Urashima Taro](http://etc.usf.edu/lit2go/72/japanese-fairy-tales/4881/the-story-of-urashima-taro-the-fisher-lad/).

 **9.** _MILLER: His mother is dead. Everyone he knows is dead. The world has changed around him, but he is still the same._  
_SNAKE: Hn. So that’s why they call time dilation in space travel the ‘Urashima Effect?’ But what was in the box?_  
\- The [Urashima Effect](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Time_dilation).

 **10.** _He takes another smoke break, a full one this time. The smoke spirals out towards the broken bridge, gets swallowed by the night. “And miles to go before I sleep,” he mutters to himself, throwing the cigarette into the ravine. Just one or two more things and then he can go…_  
\- [Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening](http://www.internal.org/robert_frost/stopping_by_woods_on_a_snowy_evening) by Robert Frost is one of those popular poems everyone studied in middle school, but I actually placed it here quite carefully. It reminds me a lot of Solid Snake, both because of the desire to just rest in a place that’s quiet a cold, but the fact that the narrator doesn’t allow himself to do it because he has so many “promises to keep”.

**Chapter Eleven**

**1.** _It’s a beautiful aura, one that scrubs the cheap artificiality of Souvenir Street clean at the edges, makes it feel less like a performance put up to satiate the Amerikajin and more like a place someone could call home._  
\- [Souvenir Street](http://www.submarinebaseph.com/otherplaces.html), “The main drag for servicemen near the base was an alley with the overhead neon sign "SOUVENIR STREET". On this street were restaurants, shops for every variety of merchandise, and bars and nightclubs galore.” [[IMAGE](http://www.submarinebaseph.com/Yokosuka3.jpg)]

 **2.** _Kazuhira bites the inside of his mouth and forces himself to smile. The neighbours remind him enough that he’s konketsuji, he doesn’t need to hear it from the Amerikajin too._  
\- _Konketsuji_ was the commonly used term for half-Japanese people in Japan before ‘Hafu’ came into popular use. It fell out of favour because it literally means “mixed blood”.

 **3.** _“Oi! Kimpatsu!”_  
\- Referring to Kaz’s blonde hair, and a pretty [rude term](http://www.intercom.net/user/logan1/jap.htm) depending on how it’s used.

 **4.** _High on the atmosphere, Kaz starts humming the last Elvis song he and Mosquito performed before he got too drunk to coherently strum chords. He sings, “- take my haaaaand, take my whooole life too-”_  
_He’s cut off by Big Boss sidling him up against the wall. “If you want me to take your whole life, Kaz,” he murmurs, whiskey-warm breath licking up Kaz’s face, “you’ll have to ask me in a nicer voice than your singing one.”_  
\- [‘I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGJTaP6anOU) is the Elvis song Kaz is humming to himself.

 **5.** _Miller laughs. It turns into a cough, draws up a shock of thick, dark blood that dribbles down his chin. “David,” he says tiredly, wiping away the blood, “we live in an age in which there is no such thing as a heroic death.”_  
_“Mishima again.”_  
\- [One last time](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/464934-we-live-in-an-age-in-which-there-is-no), I couldn’t resist.

 **6.** _Kaz braces up against the other side of the trunk and begins to push. “Shit, Snake,” he gasps, mouth filling with rain everytime he opens it, “- after all that? I’m gonna die out here, y’know.”_  
_Snake hums, unsympathetic. “I’ll be sure to pick up your bones when we’re done, then.”_  
\- Finally, the title of the fic comes from one of the more bizarre [Battle Cries](http://metalgear.wikia.com/wiki/Battle_Cries_%26_the_Kotodama_Effect) in Peace Walker. And, yes, I’ve checked: if you say this phrase to Kaz on the date mission, he approves :) 

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Drawn by my lovely roommate/collaborator, Dawn/PlayerProphet and (mostly) based on jokes from our recent Metal Gear 2 playthrough. Check out her **[ART BLOG](http://artbyprophet.tumblr.com/)**.

  


  


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** BOSS FIGHT #9 [fmg2bf#9] **  
HELL MASTER

===PRIMARY EQUIPMENT===  
Handgun [W1]  
Remote-Control Missiles [W5]  
B1, B2, B3 Rations [I23] (ideally have as many of these as you can carry)  
Cigarettes [I11]  
Mine Detector [I21]

This next fight can be a doozy when you’re not prepared, but if you’ve followed my guide up until this point and took my advice to do some RATION [I23] farming before-hand, it should be one of the easiest ones yet! You need to head back towards the DETENTION CENTER. You’ll find that your magical Cardboard Box transportation method won’t work this time. We’ll have to go the looong way. Sigh - back to JUNGLE. The HELL MASTER will stop you at the front entrance and, after a short cutscene, the battle is on!

There’s really no way to describe this fight without spoiling the twist: you’re fighting Master Miller. Now you know why I’ve been so adamant that you call this guy every chance you get, even while ignoring the rest of the ancillary cast. If you call Campbell and Kessler during the fight, they’ll give you a bit of advice: you’ve done everything here before, and wasn’t this guy your teacher? The trick to the fight is that Master Miller has told you everything you need to defeat him. Or he WOULD have if 99% of his conversations weren’t optional!

The way this battle works is that you’ll be tracking HELL MASTER through an endless version of the JUNGLE MAZE where every screen is randomized and rigged with traps. You’ll have to deal with almost every gimmicky environmental hazard you’ve faced up until this point - triggering a “trap” alerts HELL MASTER to your presence causing him to snipe at you for heavy damage from his hiding place. The traps are all pretty easy to avoid, it just involves being careful and checking each new screen carefully.

*****THE TRAPS*****  
===Squeaking Sand===  
Just crawl over this like always.  
===Mines===   
Make sure you put the mine detector on for each new screen. Avoid or crawl over them.  
===Invisible Tripwires===  
Cigarettes expose these, just like infrared beams. Sometimes they’ll be impossible to avoid. They trigger gun traps that are clearly visible on the map so just use your remote control missiles to destroy the traps if you can’t avoid the wires.  
====Poisonous Zanzibar Hamsters===  
These bastards don’t kill you in one hit this time, but you also can’t shoot them to death for some reason (!!!). Use your B3 rations to lure them into traps or onto the Squeaking Sand so HELL MASTER kills them for you.  
===Sulfuric Acid===  
Just like Master Miller told you earlier, use the B1 rations with chocolate to nullify the puddles.

Additionally, this fight has some really bizarre, stupid rules (only applicable here for some reason) based on advice that you got (OR NOT) from Miller earlier in the game.

===RULE #1===  
If you eat a ration during this fight, you’ll get “sluggish” for about half a minute meaning that you move slowly, cannot crawl and cannot equip a weapon. Luckily, if you’re careful you won’t need to actually EAT your rations in this fight.  
(“You should wait 30 minutes after eating before playing games. The blood flow shifts to your stomach, and your brain doesn't function as quickly.”)

===RULE #2===  
You’ll have to go into a swamp once or twice in this fight. Make sure you don’t remain in it for more than 100 seconds, or you’ll get “sluggish” like with the rations.  
(“When replenishing your fluids, you shouldn't drink any more than 100 cc's at a time… [otherwise] it makes your blood thinner, slowing your brain functions. So don't drink too much soda...”)

===RULE #3===  
Sometimes when you clear a screen, you’ll randomly lose an item. Don’t worry - you’ll get these back at the end of the fight (unless you really mess it up), but if you lose something you need, use your B2 rations to lure the carrier pigeon from the top of the Zanzibar Tower to you. It’ll find your item and bring it back. Apparently sometimes you CAN lose your B2 rations, but the percentage for this is very low (it’s never happened to me). You’ll usually just drop one of your ten thousand now useless key cards, or your C4s.

This fight is very slow paced, unlike the last two bosses. It’s sort of like a precursor to the kind of fights we’ll eventually see in MGS3, which means that it’s both very cool and very annoying, the same way all the shit from this game that made its way into MGS1 is also very cool and annoying.

In order to find HELL MASTER, you have to make it through three screens without triggering a single trap. Doing so will bring you to a clearing where you’ll have a short gun battle. You won’t need to use anything fancier than your handgun - two or three pops will send him back into hiding. After the second time you do this, he will strip you of ALL your weapons (even your remote-control missiles ;_;). The last time you fight him, it’ll be a fist fight. He’s still pretty fragile, but make sure you don’t let him get too many hits in because HIS punches pack a doozy (robot arm?).

If you’re careful, you should only have to go through nine screens of this crap. After you’ve punched him to death, there will be a brief cutscene and then a call with Campbell in which he urges you to search HELL MASTER’S body (which for some reason hasn’t exploded like with the rest of the bosses so far HMMM). Now, you don’t HAVE to do this, but if you don’t you will A) probably die and B) LOSE ALL OF YOUR WEAPONS. There is a way to get them back, but it’s an extremely annoying side-quest, so please look at the body. Take your weapons and whatever lost items you didn't get back from his inventory screen and make sure you look at his arm and leg.

Now you know that you’re on an invisible timer. You have about five minutes to get out of the JUNGLE MAZE. How do you escape an endless series of randomized screens? Well - HELL MASTER gave you a clue to this one as too: “make sure you don’t use a CHEAT CODE, or I’ll subtract marks!” Since this assholes’s dead, we don’t really care what he thinks anymore. The way to escape the maze is to use the KONAMI CODE.

The correct order is (say it together): Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right. The last two screens will have gates at the top marked with letters. Take B first, then A. The only traps left in the maze are mines and tripwires. A screen will only have one or the other, so just throw your Mine Detector and Cigs on at the beginning of each screen to check and then book it.

Boom - and we’re done here! A long fight, but hardly a difficult one!

 

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**OTACON’S SHIT(ER) LIFE**

There’s actually an entire cut subplot about Otacon that you can still see the seeds of in the fic. In Chapter One, the tape at the end makes reference to “finding” someone - this is Huey Emmerich, who Kaz immediately has assassinated, leaving Hal and Emma alone with Julie when Hal is a few years younger than he is in canon (all this before Kaz alerts Anderson to his presence later in the fic). All that’s left of this subplot is notes for a tape called ‘STRANGELOVE’S LEGACY’, which contains this exchange:

>   
>  BB: Should we pull him out of there? Put him in an orphanage where we can keep an eye on him?
> 
> KAZ: Hmm… no, I don’t think so.
> 
> KAZ: He’s Strangelove’s kid, after all, and you know what they say… adversity breeds brilliance.  
> 

This means that MGS1 Otacon is a bit different from the one we know in this AU. First and foremost, he’s _absolutely convinced_ that his dad was murdered by some shadowy, government conspiracy. ;)

 

 

 **THE ABORTED THREESOME FROM HELL**  
(as previously seen on my tumblr. I ended up not writing a lot of my planned Venom scenes, sadly.)

>   
>  “Kaz, close your eyes.”
> 
> Kazuhira is surprisingly obedient for a man who pulls so hard against his leash. Big Boss takes V by the elbow and guides him toward his lover. “Here, c’mon,” Big Boss whispers and he places V’s hand around the square of Kaz’s jaw. He lays his fingers over V’s so that they match and flexes them wide, pulls them down to cup the arc of Kaz’s throat. “Like this, can you even tell the difference?”
> 
> Kazuhira doesn’t answer, but he keeps his eyes shut. Big Boss leans in close and presses his lips against V’s neck. He whispers: “Kiss him like this. Don’t move your hand.”
> 
> V obeys. Kazuhira’s lips are pliant and he lets out a soft gasp as they part. It stirs a memory in V’s chest - a compulsion he has tried long to bury, his desire to reach out and set a tender hand in the small of Kaz’s back, like he used to. Big Boss is kissing a line up V’s neck. At the crook of his jaw, he adds teeth and says: “Kiss him like this. You’re always too soft.”
> 
> When V bites down, Kaz comes alive. He kisses back sloppily around V’s teeth, biting back hard enough that V tastes blood. The pain comes a second afterwards and V rears back, gasping. Big Boss’s mouth is still working down the skin on the back of his neck. He drags his fingertips down the length of V’s fingers and presses down hard on his knuckles, forcing him to tighten his hand around Kaz’s jugular. “Don’t stop,” Big Boss whispers, “until I tell you to.”
> 
> Moving in concert, they walk Kaz back until his hips hit the desk. V closes his eyes and allows his body to act as a conduit for the Boss, to move as he would. His free fingers crawl up the line of Kaz’s jaw and hook under the arms of his sunglasses to remove them.
> 
> **—- (when Kaz does try to pull away, Big Boss grabs his arm and yanks him way too hard, twisting his wrist in a way that folds the elbow joint in the wrong direction etc.) “You’re Big Boss right now,” he says in V’s ear. “Right now I’m the Phantom. Make him see you. Make me fade into the shadows until he calls you by my name. Our name.”**
> 
> “That - that isn’t how this works, Snake,” Kaz rasps. Big Boss pulls Kaz’s arm to his and presses his lips to the dark veins that run close to the surface of his skin. Kaz grunts at the pressure the angle of his forearm puts on his joints.
> 
> “I can feel your heart hammering through your artery, Kaz. You’re really turned on right now. Aren’t you curious to see what happens next? You’ve always doubted his mettle, but don’t you want to see what he’s really capable of?”
> 
> **(then Kaz and BB have this weird power play over who Venom is gonna listen to where Kaz is all like *sincere dew eyes at V* “Y-ya me te!” and BB is all “don’t be a pussy. he wants it.” and then V just kind of gets over-loaded and blue screens/PTSD’s the fuck out and then it just switches to Kaz and BB both being like “well NOW look at what you’ve done” over his twitching, spittle foaming body)**
> 
> _“Well now look at what you’ve done.”_
> 
> _“What I’ve done!? That was all you. What the hell was that all about anyway?”_
> 
> _“I thought you’d enjoy it.”_
> 
> _“Bullshit you thought I’d like that. That was fucked up. You’re fucked up.”_
> 
> _“In that case, you’re fucked up too. If you could see how flushed your face is right now, Kaz… “_
> 
> _“… is he gonna be okay?”_
> 
> _“Yeah. I suppose it’s only natural that he would get overwhelmed easily when we’re in the same room. Big Boss is a heavy mantle to bear. It’s a bit much to handle two of them at the same time… which you could have found out for yourself if you didn’t make such a big fuss.”_
> 
> _“Are you trying to make a joke?”_  
> 

 

 

**WHAT HAPPENED IN THE CABIN?**

I wrote an _entire fucking scene_ following the flashback in Chapter Nine but ended up cutting it because it ruined the flow of the epilogue flashback montage. The two Peace Walker flashbacks I originally wrote were meant to bookend Kaz and BB’s pre-GZ relationship. This was just… there and, I felt, was redundant with the scene it picked up on. But it’s nice and I ported some of it into the far more emotionally low-key 1975 scene, so here it is.

>   
>  \- Snake wipes the last bit of blood from Kaz’s lip before he starts fixing up the knife wound.
> 
> Kaz watches Snake stitch him up with a careful gaze. He feels like he’s watching him with new eyes, seeing new details, different subtleties in the way he moves and speaks. Kaz is biting the inside of his mouth to keep himself from making noise as Snake patches him up, staring hard at the way Snake’s muscles shift and ripple under his skin, how careful he is each time he pinches the heated needled through Kaz’s flesh. Each time Big Boss pulls the thread through the serrated ends of the wound he inflicted, his face softens - eyes bright, jowls relaxed, his bottom lip pursed in a moment of concentrated gentleness. Kaz has always enjoyed this side of Snake, his moments of subdued intensity: Snake with a beer in his hand and a laugh on his lips, Snake lost in a contemplative pause just before he lights his cigar. 
> 
> “It’s gonna leave a pretty ugly scar,” Snake says, running a thumb down the center of the wound to test the stitches. Kaz shuts his eyes, sucks in a pained breath at the contact and - in reaction to some strange, primal instinct - Snake presses a bit harder to draw the sound out.
> 
> Kaz rolls with it, turns the hiss into a weak, deflated laugh. “S’fine, Boss,” he says, sincerely. It really is fine.
> 
> “You don’t have many scars,” Big Boss observes as he glides his palm down Kaz’s torso: the dips between his ribs, the plane of his stomach; he hooks his hand over the arch of Kaz’s hip and keeps it there. “Just those faint ones on your back - looks like you were hit by a switch. And this one, on your chin.” He reaches out to touch the raised skin just beneath Kaz’s lip, a very old reminder of just how hard Kaz was willing to get hit just to save himself a little pride.
> 
> “I, heh, didn’t realize you paid so much attention.”
> 
> “Really, with the way you’re always shoving your body in everyone’s face...”
> 
> Kaz opens his eyes, stares at Snake steadily. “That’s not what I meant, Boss.”
> 
> Snake lets his hand rest on the curve of Kaz’s thigh. Not in an overtly sexual manner, but Kaz’s pulse starts racing anyway. “I can’t believe those Colombian rebels put you in charge of a unit - one look at you without your shirt on should have told them you’d never seen a day of real combat in your life. You’re lucky you’re so good at talking yourself up.”
> 
> “C’mon, Boss - if it was all false advertising you would have thrown me to the sharks a long time ago.”
> 
> Big Boss doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move away, either. They’re facing each other, cross-legged, stripped down to their underwear, still covered in scrapes and bruises from their earlier tumble down the ravine. The space between them is humming with tangible energy - that’s what it always feels like when Kaz trips into Big Boss’s orbit, like his head and heart fill up with a deafening wash of white noise that numbs out everything that isn’t Snake’s voice, Snake’s gaze, Snake’s hands...
> 
> The steady rhythm of rain pounding on the roof of the shack makes the room seem smaller and darker somehow. The rain only gets worse as the night goes on; they’re alone for miles, but being in the center of such a long, deep storm turns that distance infinite. Kaz and Snake, huddled around a dimming kerosene lamp, like that lamp was the only bit of light in the entire world. Like there’s no one but them, like there’s never been anyone but them. In a way, for Kaz, this is true. 
> 
> If Snake’s intent on keeping him, Kaz’ll just stay here forever. The mental loop that lead him to this conclusion was terrifying and circuitous, but now that he’s arrived, it’s actually a comfort, to get rid of that scratch in the back of the head telling him that he’s in the wrong place, the wrong time, that’s he’s with the wrong people, that he’s not quite who he’s supposed to be but…. but … to have somewhere to be, somewhere to belong, he...
> 
> “Hey -” Kaz slides his hand up the side of Snake’s face, rests his palm on Snake’s temple so that he can stroke a thumb through his bangs. He caresses Snake’s forehead, smooths over the deep lines there. “You’re a mess right now, Snake. You’re going to the med bay when we get back, okay?”
> 
> Snake just grunts. But he doesn’t argue.
> 
> Emboldened, Kaz keeps talking. “I’m glad that you’re letting go of the past.” He strokes his hand through Snake’s hair, where the headband he threw into Lago Cocibolca used to hang. Snake closes his eyes and leans into the touch.
> 
> “The past is dead, Kaz. I won’t let it control me.”
> 
> “Of course not. We have to focus on the future, on building the MSF -”
> 
> Snake shakes his head, cuts him off: “I won’t let the future control me either.”
> 
> \- and something sharp has wedged its way into Snake’s tone, it makes his voice guttural, forces it to bleed a bit of its calm. So Kaz just nods. “Okay, Boss. I’ll back you up, as usual.”
> 
> Without opening his eyes, Snake grins and eases forward an inch. It takes Kaz a few moments to realize that it’s an invitation. For some reason, his hands are shaking when he pulls Snake in for a kiss. Probably just the rain, the adrenaline, the blood loss… they do this all the time, there’s no reason it should be different. Snake kisses him back with obvious restraint. It’s achingly gentle, appreciative, a kiss that feels the same way as when Snake tells him that he’s done a Good Job.
> 
> _This is what I wanted,_ Kaz thinks. Snake the Man is more malleable, more amenable than Big Boss, the Legend. Snake is letting him in - consciously, willingly, purposefully - just a little bit.
> 
> _That’s fine_ , Kaz thinks as he kisses him again. There have been so many times in his life where he’s had less than nothing. _I can live with just a little bit._  
> 

 

 

**A BUNCH OF KISSING I CUT OUT OF THE 1975 SCENE IN THE EPILOGUE**

The scene was too long and there was already so much going on there, so I chopped it out. Sorry. This was also originally the scene where BB and Kaz had the “Huey and the UN” argument.

>   
>  “If you fall into the ocean, I’m not coming after you.”
> 
> Kaz stumbles the last few steps, but he manages not to topple over the rail. He slings his legs over the edge and kicks them a few times - the height seems less intimidating, somehow, and more awe-inspiring. The air space lights and the stars and the moon make a breath-taking, glittering expanse of the ocean. Kaz feels a genuine clench around his heart, an emotion almost too much to bear: he loves this ocean, he loves this sky, he loves his job and he loves Mother Base and he loves -
> 
> “The party’s been going for two hours. Isn’t it about time for you to start trying to sing and take off your pants?”
> 
> Kaz elbows Snake hard in the side. “I’m a fucking delight at parties, don’t you start. Besides-” he folds his arms over the bottom bar of the railing and shoots Snake - what he hopes is - a seductive, sidelong glance. He waggles his eyebrows and everything. “Thanks to a certain someone’s certain ultimatum, I’m not supposed take off my pants for just _anyone_.”
> 
> Snake raises an eyebrow. “Is that why you came up here?” 
> 
> _Was it_? Kaz can’t actually remember why he left the party anymore. He remembers feeling great, thinking beer was great, thinking that he felt so great he needed to go talk to the Boss immediately. Felt like he needed to tell him something...
> 
> Instead, Kaz lets himself go slack and fall into Snake, slotting their bodies together by way of drunken bonelessness. He slings his arms around the Boss’s neck and begins peppering his neck with short, toothy kisses. Snake’s reaction is to make an irritating grunting noise in the back of his throat and stay completely still.
> 
> “You know, there’s this thing called ‘whiskey dick’, but the more liquor that goes into you, you just seem to get more wound up. Why is that?”
> 
> “Because I’m not an old man like you,” Kaz laughs into Snake’s stubbly neck. “I’m still young and virile, why not take advantage of it?”
> 
> “ _Kaz_ …”
> 
> “Liquor lowers inhibitions. Take it as a compliment, Boss. It’s all I can do not to rip off your clothes and blow you in front of everyone, y’know, on account of your animal magnetism.” Kaz is trying to make fun of Snake, but he feels like he might have lost control of the joke half way through. “That was a joke about how you smell, by the way,” he adds helpfully.
> 
> Snake is silent a moment. His arm slowly winds around Kaz’s waist, tugging him closer. His fingers tighten, digging into the bones of Kaz’s hip, almost - Kaz thinks - a little possessively. “Would you really do that?” Snake murmurs. “In front of everyone? If I ordered you to?”
> 
> Kaz is struck still by a literal heart palpitation. Woah. _Woah_. He laughs, thin and nervous, as his head reels with memories and thoughts and feelings that he’s really not sober enough to analyze. The lingering pressure of Japan’s social conservatism, the hard limits of America’s “free-love” ethos during his college years, the hypocritical homophobia of the military - all these things he’s been reacting against and folding under since he was seventeen years old. What would really change if everyone who looked at him knew that once in awhile he took it up the ass from a man? That sometimes he was so desperate for it that he begged? Well, that’s fine: we’re a modern society now, a post-kinsey society that acknowledges not everyone can score a perfect one.
> 
> But it sounds a little more leery when the story becomes _I let an older man control my sex life like he’s my dad or something._
> 
> “Fuck,” Kaz whispers. Big Boss smiles faintly  
> 

 

 

**THE LAST TAPE IN ZANZIBAR LAND**

There was originally a tape of Big Boss sending Kaz off to his death in the epilogue but, like. We know. We know what happened. This tape was also the very first thing I wrote, so I sort of ended up covering all the emotional content of it in PART 2 of the fic itself.

>   
>  [TAPE - 1999]
> 
> (SIDE A: ZL Surveillance 04-23-99-2:31 - Boss & Miller)
> 
> “He’s made it pretty far.”
> 
> “Mmm.”
> 
> “I wouldn’t expect less. He’s your son, after all.”
> 
> “He’s not my son. He’s just a man, like any other. A man trained by the best.”
> 
> “Aw, Snake. You’re gonna make me blush with talk like that.”
> 
> “Heh.”
> 
> “...”
> 
> “... Kaz.”
> 
> “Boss.”
> 
> “You know what to do.”
> 
> “Yeah.”
> 
> “Just like when we met, Kaz. Make him believe it”
> 
> “Yeah.”
> 
> “I know you can do it. You’re the only one who can.”
> 
> “You can count on me.”
> 
> (the sound of someone getting to their feet, unevenly. another follows. a moment of tense silence. a long, shuddering exhale, then one of them chuckles.)
> 
> “Still glad to be with me?”
> 
> (a little breathless) “ _Always_. To the end, Boss. Right up to the gates of hell.”
> 
> [CLICK]

_"SAY GOODNIGHT... AND SAY PEACE..."_


	13. POST CREDITS

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[ _a heavy, metal door yawns open. footsteps. they stop abruptly and the sound of hard cardboard hitting the floor resounds through the empty room_ ]

“Hello, Donald.”

“Ocelot!? How did you know about this?”

“What I know, that you don’t realize I know, could fill an ocean, Donald. But in this case? The perpetrator of this particular travesty... I knew him well. Had him watched, in case he went back to his old ways.”

“... then you’re here to kill me.”

“That depends.”

“On what.”

“On a lot of things. But right now, it doesn’t matter. The box isn’t open yet, so we’re both safe for now.”

“It’s not open? But... Miller said that in the case that both he and Snake died...”

“That’s true.”

“... and both their bodies were found in Zanzibar Land...”

“That’s also true.”

“Then how?”

“You’d be surprised what a human body can endure, when it’s been through so much. How resilient our basic automatic functions really are.”

“You don’t mean...”

“Yes. Big Boss is still alive.”

"Oh, _shi_ -"

[CLICK]  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
